


Out of Sight, Out of Mind

by Ardin



Category: Forever (TV), Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2018-10-21 10:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10683510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ardin/pseuds/Ardin
Summary: Two violent murders have Melbourne police stumped until Jack and Phryne get unexpected help from someone Phryne knew, and thought she'd lost, during the war. Case story. Set between seasons 2 and 3 of MFMM. This is a crossover with the show "Forever", but you don't need to know a single thing about that show to understand this. Definitely MFMM centric.





	1. Chapter 1

Melbourne - May 31, 1929

“Good morning, Hugh.” Phryne Fisher’s clear voice filled the station as she greeted the young constable at the front desk before making her way, uninvited, through the half door and back to Inspector Jack Robinson’s office.

Jack watched her surreptitiously over the newspaper that he had been perusing and marvelled at the events that had led them to this point. If you had told him a year ago that Miss Phryne Fisher, Lady Detective and constant irritating thorn in his side would become such an integral part of his life - best friend, crime solving partner, and more, though not as much more as he wanted - in such a short time, he’d have locked you up in the mental ward and thrown away the key. He could admit that even in those early days, he’d been intrigued by her and that he had been in no way immune to her charms and flirtations, but he had never imagined that they would, or even could, become such a solid team.

He gently tossed the newspaper onto his desk as she sauntered through his door and with a weary smile, greeted her, “Good morning, Miss Fisher.”

“Morning Jack! You look terrible.” Her usual lack of tact made him smile a little wider as he rolled his eyes and responded.

“Well, thank you.” His tone dripped with playful sarcasm, “I’m always glad to get your opinion on these things.” He let his eyes sweep briefly over her before continuing, “You look wonderful, as always, but then you were not up all night trying to catch a murderer.” His eyes dropped to the paper and he gestured vaguely in it’s direction.

Under normal circumstances, Phryne would have happily grabbed at the rare direct compliment as an opportunity for some heavy flirting, but even through the sarcasm and playfulness in his voice she could hear how tired he was. Surveying him briefly from where she’d leaned up against the side of his desk, she noted the obvious tension in his shoulders, the bags under his eyes, and the general rumpled appearance of his suit. Letting his earlier comment go, for the moment, she looked down at the newspaper and grimaced at the headline: “2nd Body Discovered; Police Have No New Leads”.

She pulled herself away from the desk with a sigh, turned, picked up the paper and sat herself down in the chair across from Jack, speaking as she did so, “How can they expect any leads? Poor woman’s only been dead a day. They’ve barely completed the autopsy.” His expression became one of incredulity, once again stunned by how quickly she got hold of confidential information. Spotting the look, Phryne grinned and shrugged, “Mac was over for breakfast.”

With a small shake of his head, Jack leaned back in his chair, watching her as she finished reading the article. When she had completed the perusal, she folded it and threw it back onto the desk, the force of the throw giving away her resentment at the story’s contents before her words could, “I don’t think it’s fair at all that they get to blame the police for this murder. They make it out as if you’ve all just been sitting on your hands for the last two and a half weeks, when that couldn’t be further from the truth. Just look at you,” she took a silent moment to do just that, noting again how tired he was while simultaneously appreciating his rumpled look - his hair unstyled and ruffled from the many times he’d run a frustrated hand over it, the slight stubble on his cheeks and chin, and the loosened tie and single undone button at the top of his shirt - before continuing, “These women died outside your jurisdiction, they aren’t your cases, but still you and the rest of your department have toiled away trying to find this deranged killer. How can the paper imply you aren’t doing your jobs?”

He simply shrugged. The question was rhetorical; she knew as well as anyone that the paper didn’t care that they were working their tails off on this, it just wanted the sensationalism. In Jack’s opinion the newspaper was largely at fault for the panic that had been caused ever since Helen Baines had been found dead two weeks earlier. It was a slow news cycle - the dock strikes had ended and the string of robberies that had been making headlines for the entire month of April had been solved (thanks to Miss Fisher) - so the local papers had picked up on the dead woman immediately, frightening the public with gruesome headlines and graphic crime scene descriptions. There was no shortage of gore to go around and the discovery of the second body in the early hours yesterday was not going to help the general concern.

On May 12th, the body of Helen Emma Baines, a prostitute and sometime fruit seller, had been found less than a block away from the City North police station. She had been stabbed, in the location where she had been found, more than three dozen times. Jack hadn’t been to that scene, but he’d seen photos and even without the color and smell of the real thing it was disturbing. Her husband had been the first suspect, but quickly alibied out, and there had been no other serious suspects. No witnesses, no one who was coming forward to say they’d seen her past 10:00pm the night before, and what little evidence had been left at the scene was useless. Other than the extreme violence of the crime, it really wasn’t special. Prostitutes often fell victim to the gangs, drugs, or their own clients. It was a cold case, or would have been if the paper hadn’t picked up the story, until they found something new.

And now, a second woman. And an even more disturbing scene. Jack had been to that one. It still wasn’t in his jurisdiction, but he had no other active cases and had been acting as a sounding board for the head of City North, DI James Troughton, since the first case. He’d lost his breakfast at just the smell of blood and viscera that had permeated the alley (less than a hundred feet from the first scene) where Edna Marie Clarkson, prostitute, mother of 5, had been killed and her body mutilated. Her throat had been opened by two powerful strikes and her stomach slashed open to the guts. Numerous other cuts marked the body, most, but not all post-mortem. He hadn’t been the only seasoned homicide detective in that alley to void their stomachs and he was sure that he wasn’t the only one unable to eat for almost 24 hours after. He’d seen awful things in the war, but this… 

Jack shook himself out of his morbid remembrances. Miss Fisher had picked the newspaper back up to read some more and he took the opportunity to look her over. He hadn’t been kidding earlier when he’d said she looked wonderful, but a closer examination (which he wasn’t tired enough to believe went unnoticed by her shrewd senses) revealed bags under her eyes which could not be completely hidden by her deft hand with the make up. He also noted that her hair was less shiny and perfectly coiffed than usual and he suspected that she wasn’t eating enough, she seemed to be losing a bit of weight. She may be willing to give the police credit for the man hours they’d been putting in, but he knew full well just how hard she’d been pushing to get this solved as well. Up at all hours, running herself, Bert and Cec ragged around the city, using her less than entirely above board tactics, to dig up information that might not be accessible to the authorities. Not that she’d been particularly successful.

Her fire for this particular case had been ignited by two separate items: Like him, the extreme violence of the act had driven her (he had refused to show her the crime photos himself, trying to shield her from the horror, but Mac had been less coddling, not only showing her the photos, but walking her through the whole of the coroner’s report), but the second item had spurred her on even more. An off hand remark by a desk sergeant as he headed home for the day had been overheard by the Lady Detective: “It’s been 5 days, we’ve got nothing, I don’t know why we’re pushing so hard. She was just a hooker.” Hearing a victim referred to as not worth the department’s time and energy had not set well with Phryne (nor with Jack, who’d given the man a warning and note in his record as a result) who had looked one step short of pummeling the man before Jack had pulled her by the arm into his office. She’d railed for a few moments before calming down and had been fixed on the case ever since.

Finishing her reading, or possibly just tired of his unanswered staring, Phryne tossed the paper back onto his desk and caught his eye. They looked at each other for a few silent moments, before she stood, brushed down her dress and grinned at him.

“Well, I have a harbormaster to speak with and a journalist to harangue, so I’ll be off.” She turned to the door, hand outstretched for the handle before pausing and looking back at him with a slight frown, “You should go home Jack, get a couple of hours of sleep and a meal. Come back when you’re rested up a bit.”

He nodded, acknowledging and appreciating her concern for his well-being, and stood as well, “You’re right.” He continued speaking before she could cut in with a comment or two about how she always was, “I could use the shut eye,” he looked down at himself, “and a wash.”

Her eyes narrowed and her mouth turned up in the sly, predatory smile that never failed to get his heart rate up, “Let me know if you need any help with that.” She gave him a slow once over before turning, opening the door with a flourish, and sashaying out.

He stood watching the empty doorway for a moment before shaking his head, “That woman,” he muttered to himself, “is going to be the death of me.” Throwing on his coat and hat, he headed home, leaving instructions with Collins that he should be called immediately if something new came up.


	2. Chapter 2

Sydney - June 1, 1929

Henry Morgan was a man of habits. After nearly 150 years of life it was hard not to be. This wasn’t to say that he couldn’t adapt. As a surgeon, his schedule could never be completely set in stone and his days varied a great deal. But the little things stayed as constant as possible and it took something truly disturbing or important to thrown those away. Maybe it was because the routine elements helped him cope with the utterly non-routine fact of his existence.

He’d been born in London in September of 1779 to a reasonably wealthy merchant family. He’d been educated as a doctor (though looking back on it from 1929, the word hardly applied), married a woman he loved, and had been set to live a very basic, but good, life. And then everything had changed. 

In 1815, he discovered that his father’s company transported slaves - among other “goods” - and, appalled at the notion, had resolved to change the situation. He’d gotten passage as doctor on a ship heading for America, “The Empress of Africa”, and was set to free the unfortunate captives aboard. But a sick slave and the Captain’s flintlock had derailed that effort. While refusing to let the crew throw one of the slaves overboard, he’d been shot in the chest and had been sent into the water instead.

He was sure that he was dead, as he sunk lower into the ocean, and had cast his thoughts to his beloved wife as his eyes closed and his heart stopped. And then, with a rush of memory and emotion, he’d surfaced with a gasp, the gunshot wound badly scarred, but healed, and his clothes gone. Still night, still the middle of the ocean - he could see the lanterns of the “Empress” as she sailed on her way - still alive. But how?

More than a hundred years later and he couldn’t answer that question. Didn’t know why he was alive. But he was and it seemed to be permanent. He had “died” many dozens of times since that night on the Atlantic Ocean. It never lasted, sometimes to his disappointment, and he would “awake” much as he had that first time: in a large body of water, completely naked, near wherever his heart had most recently stopped, free of any scars or marks save the ugly reminder of the flintlock that stopped it the first time. 

He couldn’t die and he didn’t age. As far as he knew he would look 34 for the rest of his existence, which could last forever. To some it might seem like the ultimate blessing: just imagine all the things you could do with eternity. See the world, learn countless languages, linger over every meal and every lover. In fact, there was almost nothing in life that Henry hadn’t done at one point or another, except die. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case for those around him - parents, friends, colleagues - everyone around him would, sooner or later, leave this world. 

Of course, Henry was rarely able to hang around long enough to see that happen. He didn’t age, which meant he could never become too settled in one place. He would have a decade usually before people would start noticing and then he had to move on. And the times when he had died in front of others, when there had been witnesses to his body vanishing, he’d had to move on even faster. He no longer dared tell anyone of his “condition”; had tried that before and never with good results. He’d been locked in an asylum, burned for witchcraft, and experimented on. Not surprisingly Henry had quickly decided: Eternity is not a blessing, but a curse.

The constant need to pick up and leave, go somewhere new; sometimes cities, sometimes countries, occasionally whole continents would separate him from his last life; the general, possibly never ending, persistent flux of his life irked and he could never truly count on anything being the same from day to day. Thus the little habits. The things that he had control over, that he could make sure would be the same as often as possible.

One of those little things was his newspaper routine. Whether morning or evening - this varied greatly depending on which hospital shifts he was working - it was the same: buy a paper from one of the newsies on the nearby corner (never from the kiosk if he could avoid it, better to give the profit to one of the young boys than to the obviously opium addicted kiosk owner), walk back to his small, neat flat, brew a pot of strong, sweet tea, and settle in to leisurely read the day’s news.

He’d had the same routine throughout most of his long life, no matter where he was living, whenever a paper was available. Even during the wars that he’d been in, he’d made the effort to sit with a paper (often weeks or months old) and a cup of tea for at least a few quiet moments. Moments usually interrupted by gunfire or mortar blasts and the call of “Doctor” ringing through the air.

Today, he had been confident that he would be able to enjoy his little routine, to sit for a leisurely while reading the Morning Herald. His shift at the hospital didn’t start for several hours and he’d happily breathed in the fresh air as he stepped out into the lane to find a paper. He’d spotted one of the regular neighborhood newsies and had headed his way, pulling a shilling piece out of his pocket as he did so. It was four times what the paper actually cost, but Henry made a point of helping out the youngsters (many fatherless as a result of the war, just trying to help their families survive) as often as possible, in whatever ways they would allow. Whether it was paying extra for the paper each day (and buying from a different boy each day of the week when possible), handing out clothes left behind by patients who had passed away (as long as the nature of their death didn’t require the clothes to be burned), or tending to the cuts, scrapes, and bruises that came hand in hand with a tough life and a territorial job.

As he approached, the young boy - whom Henry identified as Jacob, second youngest of 6 kids whose father had died of influenza 6 months earlier - shot him a grin and tipped his flat cap, “Good morning, Doctor Morgan.” 

“Good morning, Jacob.” Henry handed over the shilling coin, making Jacob smile wider, and received his paper in return, “What’s in the news today?”

“Nothing local.” The boy winced slightly, the papers always sold better if there were happenings in the neighborhood, instead of in another state or country, “Another dead woman in Melbourne, though, found not far from that one a few weeks back. Real messy, too.”

He would have said more, but another customer approached, and he gave Henry a wave before turning to the other man, not noticing the frozen expression on Henry’s face or the stiff way he turned back down the street.

‘Another dead woman in Melbourne.’ Henry’s guts had tightened at the words, just as they had when he’d read of Helen Baines’ death two and a half weeks earlier. It hadn’t been the death in question that had caused his insides to freeze, though certainly a murder was an awful thing, but rather the details of the case: a dead prostitute with 30 stab wounds to the chest, 9 to the throat. Details so similar to another case from Henry’s long memory; details of a death in Whitechapel, London.

So much for his newspaper routine. There would be no leisurely reading and pot of tea today. Not until he’d read the story, not until he was sure.  
He forced himself to walk back to his home at his usual pace, his hands clenched tightly around the paper, keeping the distress that he was feeling off his features as he moved. Once inside, he hurried to the office desk in the corner, switched on the lamp, and opened the paper past the front page advertisements to the story he actually cared about. His face blanched as he read and he sank heavily into his desk chair: a prostitute murdered, found in an alley, her throat cut, abdomen sliced open, numerous other cuts and stabs to the abdomen.

It was as he’d feared when Jacob told him the headline. It was happening again.

‘You don’t know that for certain,’ a voice in the back of his mind stated, ‘it’s eerily similar, but you don’t know anything for certain.’

Henry took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and again. He began to calm down. That little voice of reason over writing his memories and terrible fears was right, there was no real evidence yet. Just a major coincidence. Or two.

Setting down the paper, he walked slowly and deliberately over to one of his bookshelves. There, at eye level, were dozens of small bound journals, each scribed in his own hand on the bindings with a set of years. His diaries. His carefully recording life. Each book a different location; a different home.

Scanning the spines, he quickly found the one that he was looking for: 1886 - 1891. Five years that he had spent in London as a general physician. He took the book back to his desk and sat down before opening it, flipping to the pages that he was looking for: August 1888. With a careful eye, he compared one of his entries to the newspaper description and his heart fell. The same. Identical for all details that the paper had access to.

He closed the book, refolded the newspaper, and reclined in the chair. His mind was focused on the past. On eleven murders in Whitechapel which may or may not have been committed by the same killer. A killer that had terrified the public and never been caught. He tried to talk himself out of the plan that was already forming in his mind. ‘Let the police handle it; you don’t need to get involved.’

With a sigh he shoved to his feet. Of course he did. If there was any chance that the murders were related, even as a copycat crime, he had to know and he had to bring his knowledge to bear on the case. If this was truly the same as 1888, then there might be one victim that hadn’t been in the papers, a victim who hadn’t warranted the same kind of attention. He would go to Melbourne and see if he could find that victim. If she existed. If she did, then he would go to the police, not before. Even with the other victim, he’d sound crazy to most; without her, there was no chance of finding anyone who might listen.

As he began to move around his home, gathering items and packing quickly with the efficiency of long practice, the question that had been on his mind since Jacob told him the news, tumbled through his thoughts again and again: ‘Could Jack the Ripper be in Melbourne?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who know Forever: sorry for the heavy exposition chapter. For those who don’t hopefully this tells you a goodly amount about who Henry Morgan is, though only kind of as MFMM takes place 60 years before Forever so it’s hard to guess who exactly he would be (mentally/emotionally) in 1929.


	3. Chapter 3

Melbourne - June 3, 1929

“What a way to start a day.” Dr. MacMillan breathed out as she stepped up to her autopsy slab. Her first “patient” of the day lay on the slab, covered to the chest by a thin white sheet. She sighed heavily as she set up to perform the autopsy and record her findings. The boy couldn’t have been more than 15 years old and even without seeing the rest of his body, Mac counted half a dozen medium to large bruises in various stages of healing. Another kid off the streets. She saw too many of these kinds of things, kids without parents or from families with far too many mouths to feed, joining the various gangs in a desperate attempt to stay one step ahead of starvation.

She had just finished recording her visual findings on the chest, shoulders, and head and had pulled down the sheet to begin the rest of her documentation when the door behind her opened. Turning, she took in the sight of a man standing with one foot into the room and a confused expression on his face. He was in his mid-30s, handsome, well, but not expensively, dressed, brown hair and brown eyes, striking in their intensity. Her first thought was surprise at the intrusion. Her second was that he was exactly Phryne’s type.

“My apologies.” His voice was deep, with a distinctly London lilt, and his smile was small, but friendly. “I was looking for morgue records, which this obviously is not,” He frowned momentarily and glanced at the door that he was still standing halfway through, “but the sign…”

He trailed off, his gaze returning briefly to Mac before moving on to take in the exposed body of the dead boy behind her. She quickly brought the sheet back up over the boy before removing her gloves and turning to fully face the man.

“Yes, the signs.” Her voice held both good humor and a hint of reproach as she stepped towards him, “A few of our young orderlies find it amusing to swap the various signs on this level around. I’ve been working here so long, I didn’t even notice when I came in, but it plays havoc with the various funeral personnel and constables who visit.”

He stared at the sign on the door for another couple of seconds before his smile widened. “Yes, I can see how that could be disturbing. One does not expect to find a body being cut open when one is looking for a simple file.”

“Indeed. I hope that you aren’t too put off by the experience.” He certainly didn’t seem to be. Beyond the obvious initial confusion, he seemed perfectly at ease to have walked in on her examination of a nude, dead teenager.

“Not at all. I’ve been a surgeon for too many years to be thrown by the sight of an autopsy. Especially as it has not been fully started.” He smiled at her for a moment and then seemed to remember himself. “Forgive my manners, I’m Dr. Henry Morgan.”

Mac took the offered hand, pleased that his grip was neither too tight (as was generally true of those offended by finding a woman in a “man’s job”) nor too loose (those who considered women to be frail by virtue of their sex), and shook it, “Dr. Elizabeth MacMillan. Would you be our newest recruit then?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I’m just in town to look into a personal matter.” His eyes briefly took on a darkness that startled Mac. But the change was fleeting and left her wondering if she had imagined it. He pointed back at the confusing sign on the door, “So, where would I find Records?”

She smiled and pointed toward the left, “Just down the hall, turn left at the first juncture and it’s the second door on the right. Cataloguing is pretty standard, but you’re not likely to find anyone in there at this time of day - it’s usually only staffed in the afternoon - so if you need any help just come on back and ask.”

“Thank you very much, Dr. MacMillan. I appreciate the help.” He took a half step backwards and had started to turn around into the hallway, before stopping suddenly and looking back at her. “I do hope the police can locate whomever did that to the poor boy.” He gestured to the teenager on the slab, “No one should be allowed to treat a child like that.” He turned to leave.

“Wait a moment.” Mac’s voice stopped him and he turned back to face her properly, “What do you mean by that?” She asked suspiciously. “I’ve only just begun and you only had a brief glimpse, how can you possibly know what happened to him?”

He must have heard the suspicion in her voice, because he stepped fully into the room, his hands held a little in front of him in a placating manner, and leaving plenty of space between them. “I can assure you that I had nothing to do with his death, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m just very good at seeing things.” He took a step closer to the body, “May I?”

Mac nodded, her suspicions in no way quieted, and shifted to move slightly closer to the door, keeping the gap between herself and the stranger. She was quite confident of her ability to defend herself, should it come to that, but wasn’t fool enough to put herself at an unnecessary disadvantage if that proved necessary.

Henry slipped on gloves with the ease of long practice and pulled the sheet back off the body, uncovering the boy completely. “The numerous bruises, as I’m sure you’ve already noted, point to a significant number of hard hits over a minimum of the last three weeks. Most could have been inflicted with nearly anything, but this one here,” he pointed at the left thigh, “is long and thin. A cane, perhaps?”

Mac had to admit that it seemed an appropriate observation, but before she could speak, Henry was speaking again.

“And here,” he moved to the right side of the body, his non-threatening, placating manner replaced by what Mac recognized as the teaching mode that she had noticed in numerous colleagues and instructors over the years, “this arm has been badly broken within in the last year and given how poorly it healed and the bowing of the limb, I’d surmise a spiral fracture of the humerus.”

Caught up by his zeal, Mac slipped on her own pair of gloves and moved to stand by his side to observe the arm herself. Her suspicions were not completely quieted, but she shunted them to the side as her professional skills also took over. “Yes, I agree. Most likely grabbed just above the elbow and pulled or shaken. Probably by someone a good deal larger than him.”

Henry nodded, “Yes, it would have taken a good deal of force and it doesn’t seem to have been treated by a physician at all.” His gaze flicking over the body again, he reached out and pressed gently on the boy’s belly a few times before speaking again. “The visibly distended abdomen could have several causes, but given the lack of other signs of malnutrition or starvation, I’d say internal bleeding, possibly a ruptured spleen, given the epicenter, and likely the final cause of his death.”

He looked over at Mac briefly, apparently pleased when he noted her nodding head and keen eyes taking in what he was saying. She spoke, cutting off whatever he was going to say next.

“Can you help me turn him over? I suspect that his upper back will have even more evidence.” 

Henry nodded and moved to the end of the table to grab the boy’s feet and help turn him. Mac sighed in revulsion when the teenager’s back was revealed, covered in dozens of small, circular burns and scars. 

“Cigarette burns. On the back so they’ll be covered from the eyes of friends and teachers, I’ve seen it before on abused children.” Her voice was full of anger and disgust. Dr. Morgan was right, no one should be able to treat a child like this and get away with it.

“There’s also…” Mac cut off the other doctor’s voice with a sharp shake of her head and wave of her hand.

“I’ve seen enough to be nearly certain that this was no gang violence or the hard life of a street kid. I’ll be doing a full autopsy, but I need to get this information over to City South police so they can begin tracking down his identity and family.” She recovered the body and stripped off her gloves, waiting a moment for Henry to do the same, before sticking out her hand to the man, “Thank you so much for your help. I’m sure I would have gotten there eventually, but sooner is certainly better.”

Henry shook the offered hand, smiling slightly, “Not a problem. I’ll show myself down to records and let you get on your way to the police. I hope they catch whoever is responsible.” Mac couldn’t help but smile a little herself at the sincerity in his voice. She considered offering an apology for her suspicions, but decided against it. They had been justified and he didn’t seem offended in the least. Instead she proceeded him out the door and turned down the hallway with him. They paused at the next hall juncture.

“Thank you again, Dr. Morgan, for your help. I should be back within the next hour or so if you need any help with your records search.”

He smiled in acknowledgement, though Mac noticed that his eyes had once again briefly hardened, and turned down the hallway without another word. Mac watched him go for a moment before turning down the opposite hall.

X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

When she arrived at City South Police fifteen minutes later, she was glad, but not surprised, to find not only Detective Inspector Robinson, but also Phryne, at the station. She watched the two interact for a brief moment - they appeared to be having one of their standard non-argument arguments, complete with Phryne shifting from the second chair to sit on the corner of Jack’s desk, regardless of the paperwork she was perching upon, and Jack looking simultaneously pleased and uncomfortable to have her legs so near to his perusal - before pushing through the half door and into the office.

Jack spotted her first. His greeting was polite, but she could hear in his voice his gratitude for the interruption. “Good morning, Dr. MacMillan.”

Phryne pivoted on her spot on the desk and smiled brightly, “Mac. How are you?”

“I’d be a lot better if the first body on my slab this morning had not been a teenage boy.” Mac sunk into the chair opposite Jack, who nodded, he’d seen the report when he came in this morning.

“The one found in the church grounds this morning?” He checked and continued on Mac’s nod, “I’m surprised that you’ve finished the autopsy already. He wasn’t even found until a few hours ago.”

She shook her head as she spoke, “No, I haven’t had a chance to finish the autopsy, but there were a few things that stood out in the initial examination: no malnutrition, not much in the way of the cuts, scrapes, and associated scarring I’d expect and have seen before on the true street kids.”

Phryne stood up so that she could look at Mac and Jack at the same time, “So we’re probably looking at a recent runaway or a kid with a family that might be looking for him?” Mac heard the underlying pain in Phryne’s voice. For all her supposed lack of maternal instinct and ability, the Honorable Miss Fisher had an immense ability to care for children; to show compassion for the young. 

“Most likely.” Mac paused before laying down the bad news, “But if there is a family, that’s where we’re going to want to start looking at cause of death.” Phryne was silent and still as that information sunk in, while Jack gestured for her to continue, looking graver than usual. “He had numerous bruises across his body in different stages of healing, one that looked like it probably came from a cane or something similar in shape. He’d had his arm broken in the last year. The kind of break that comes from someone strong grabbing and yanking on the elbow. And he hadn’t been to a doctor about it; it had healed all wrong.” Both detectives were looking furious as they listened and, as Mac watched Jack clench his fist reflexively, she vaguely pitied the boy’s abuser when they were found. She took a breath before finishing with the worst of the findings, “His back was covered in cigarette burns. Like the bruises, they were in different stages of healing. I’d say that had been happening for at least a year, given the scarring, possibly a little longer. And my preliminary cause of death is internal bleeding, probably ruptured spleen or kidney. Someone or something hit him with incredible force across his lower abdomen.”

The silence that followed this pronouncement was complete as the two investigators tried to wrap their brains around what they were hearing. Final Jack broke the silence.

“So we’re looking at a teenager who had been suffering frequent abuse for at least a year?” Mac recognized that seemingly calm tone. Phryne referred to it as his “going to war” voice. It was how he spoke when he would stop at nothing to get justice. It was how he’d spoken when he’d confronted his former father-in-law about the kidnapped girls and when he’d come up against a doctor who had been raping women under the guise of medical treatment. It was scary to anyone who’d heard him use it before; anyone who’d seen the consequences that came with that voice. 

“Do we know anything else about him? Other than his obvious health history?” Phryne was also mad, but she had gone into problem solving mode. You couldn’t punish someone, couldn’t find justice for a victim, until you found the person responsible, so that was precisely what she would do. 

When she didn’t receive a response, Phryne walked the short distance to Jack and reached out a careful hand to touch his shoulder, “Jack.” He looked up at her, the storm clouds in his mind and the tension in his body bleeding away at her gentle touch and voice. She repeated the question, “Do we know anything else about him? Anything to find out who he was?” 

“Not much, unfortunately.” His voice was still hard, but he’d followed her into a mindset of investigation and no longer sounded quite as stressed or as lethal to all around him. “He was found this morning in the gardens at St. James Cathedral. Clothes were unexceptional. No ID, no tags, no religious symbols. I was going to go over to the Cathedral this afternoon and ask around to see if anyone knew him.”

“Dot and I can handle that. It will make a nice change from trying to convince the local prostitutes to talk to us about the two murdered women. Why don’t you look into recent missing children’s files?”

Jack nodded his acknowledgement. He agreed that a distraction from their double homicide would be good - especially as they had made zero headway - and while he doubted finding anything in missing persons, given the obvious neglect and harm of the child, it was a respectable starting point. He could hope that even if the boy’s family didn’t care, maybe a teacher or mentor might have reported something.

Mac stood to accompany Phryne out and head back to the hospital, but paused at Jack’s voice. “Thank you Dr. MacMillan for your findings.”

She gave him a small smile, “I’d love to take all the credit, but it would have taken a good deal longer if I hadn’t received an unexpected visitor. Not that I wouldn’t have gotten there eventually, but Dr. Morgan sped up the process significantly.”

Neither Mac nor Jack missed Phryne’s slight tensing and her brief startled expression at the mention of Dr. Morgan, though both subsided quickly enough.

“Dr. Morgan?” Jack asked. His eyes watched Phryne where she stood. Just moments before she’d been full of energy, ready to start her investigation. Now she just stood there, seemingly lost in thought.

Mac was also watching Phryne as she responded, “Yes, surgeon. He was visiting, though I neglected to ask from where, to look through our medical records on a personal matter. Stunning observational skills. He’d barely looked at the boy’s body for a moment before he’d noted all of the injuries and come to his conclusion.” Jack nodded, but was still watching Phryne, who had come back to herself for the most part, though she still looked a little unnerved. Mac took the plunge, “Something the matter, Phryne?”

The question shook Miss Fisher from her remaining torpor and she smiled at her friend, shaking her head against the worried looks on her and Jack’s faces. “No, no, nothing. Just a memory of the war.” She paused and then shrugged, “I knew a Dr. Morgan at Verdun, but he...died.”

They both caught her slight pause before the word ‘died’, but neither asked. The war had been hard on everyone and some deaths were still hard to face even after so many years. Jack smiled at Phryne with empathy clearly written on his features before ducking his head back down to his paperwork as Mac shooed her out of the office, “Common enough name. Now don’t you have a church to investigate?” She paused to briefly turn back to the inspector, “I’ll get you my full findings as soon as I’ve finished the autopsy.” And then they were gone, leaving Jack to his work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a doctor, so I apologize if I got a few things wrong where the medicine is concerned. I’m also not Australian, so I apologize for any mistakes as far as terminology or geographic layout of Melbourne is concerned. I’ve been doing research as best as I can as I write, but don’t want to get so bogged down by details as to lose the thread of the story.
> 
> The death of the teenage boy is not of major concern. I’ll probably have that wrapped, without much detail by the end of the next chapter. It was just a good way to start getting character overlap and to demonstrate Henry’s near freakish observational skills.


	4. Chapter 4

Melbourne - June 12, 1929

With a deep sigh, Henry Morgan closed the file that he had been going through for the previous fifteen minutes. Leaning back in his chair, he contemplated the task that he had set himself. For the past week he had been searching desperately for something that he had no proof actually existed: a first, previously unnoticed victim. The two Melbourne victims noted in the newspapers had been nearly perfect matches - as far as age, profession and cause of death had been concerned - to the second and third women killed in Whitechapel in 1888. The Jack the Ripper murders. And if there was any connection between those murders and these, he had to do whatever he could to keep things from getting even worse.

He had been there in 1888. Had been a doctor in London called in to examine several of the Ripper’s later victims. No one knew what had stopped the deaths or how many of the eleven women killed over a three year period had been committed by the same man. But Henry had seen the damage with his own eyes and was terrified by the possibility of the same thing happening here. The math said that it could potentially be the same perpetrator (they’d be old, likely in their 60s, but it was possible) or it could be a copycat well versed in the original cases or there could be no connection at all.

So Henry searched for the first. It was difficult. The first Whitechapel murder had been significantly different from all the others. So different that many didn’t attribute it to the same killer as the later ones. Emma Elizabeth Smith hadn’t been killed in the street like the others, she hadn’t been stabbed. She’d been raped by multiple assailants and foreign objects and had died a day later in hospital of a ruptured peritoneum as a result. Her death had happened nearly four full months prior to the next death and had been largely ignored by authorities when it happened.

It wasn’t much to go on. Melbourne had a large itinerant and street population. Gang violence was a common thing and prostitutes were hardly thin on the ground. But he was working through them. He’d systematically pulled the files for every woman who had died in Melbourne in the six months prior to the death of Helen Baines and been going through them looking for similarities. Many had been easy to rule out: deaths from childbirth or disease, ages too young or too old, and the non-prostitutes. The rest he had been slowly whittling down by visits to families, doctors, and police.

He’d been at it for a week and still had so many files left to check through. The stack on the desk in front of him did not look any smaller than when he had started this morning, nearly eight hours previous. The project had become all consuming, he barely paused to eat or drink and his returns to the small flat he had rented for a few hours sleep were becoming fewer and farther between. He’d had little time to interact with anyone outside of Records, though he knew from half heard gossip and whispers that he was attracting a certain amount of attention from the hospital and morgue staff. 

Handsome, polite, and completely focused on his task, it was really no surprise that his unofficial colleagues, especially the women, had taken notice. He ignored all of it. There would be time for being social once he’d solved his mystery.

He had considered going in search of Dr. MacMillan on his third - or was it his fourth? - day at the morgue, wanting to check in on the teenage boy that he had examined upon arrival. She had seemed intelligent with a slightly suspicious nature that could make her an excellent sounding board for his current task. But he had decided not to. 

Partly because the newspaper had reported just the next day that the murderer had been caught. The boy’s uncle, who’d taken on guardianship after the mother had passed away, had been ill suited - by way of shell shock - to care for the boy and his young sister. In fits of violence and war memory, he’d been beating both children irregularly for almost a year. The boy had borne the worst of it, trying valiantly to protect his sister, and had eventually paid the price for that heroism: a single hard blow to the stomach had ruptured his spleen. The uncle had been arrested, but was probably looking at a life sentence rather than hanging, and the sister had been taken in by a family friend with three similar age children.

So there had been no need for him to approach Dr. MacMillan for information. But really that was just his excuse to hide behind. The main reason he didn’t approach the woman was because he knew exactly how crazy he would sound. How could he tell someone that he had been in London in 1888? How could he explain how he knew things about the cases that had never made it to the newspapers? He’d been through similar circumstances before and he had no interest in being chucked into another insane asylum. He’d find the first victim and then, maybe, he would have the proof to get someone to listen.

Glancing at the pile again, he considered starting on the next file, but the pain in his spine and the grumbling in his stomach dissuaded him. Standing, he stretched, turned out the desk lamp and headed out of the morgue. He’d take a walk, get some air and sleep, and start again in the morning.

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Melbourne - June 15, 1929

Margaret Lillian Ward. Margaret Lillian Ward.

As he walked down the Melbourne streets at top speed, Henry Morgan repeated the name to himself over and over. He’d found her! He’d found the first victim: Margaret Lillian Ward, an unmarried prostitute, had died in hospital of a rupture peritoneum slightly over three month before Helen Baines had been found with her plethora of stab wounds. She had told police about being attacked and raped by a group of three men, one of whom she’d estimated to be about 16 years old. It was a near perfect match to the 1888 Whitechapel murder. 

It wouldn’t be enough to convince anyone by itself, but put the pattern of the three women together and surely no one would be able to deny that as mere coincidence. And so he was headed to City Central police station to make a report to the Chief Commissioner of Police. 

As he walked down the street, his mood fluctuated wildly. One moment, he was jubilant, his first victim identified, his case made. The next, doubt would set in as he reminded himself that just because he saw the pattern didn’t mean that he could force anyone else to see it as well. And behind all other emotions was a steady fear. Eleven women had been killed brutally in Whitechapel; three were already dead in Melbourne. Must they anticipate another eight bodies? If they couldn’t catch the guy, would he stop at eleven or would he just keep going? If he stopped killing and then disappeared without being caught, would Henry face this same killer another 41 years down the road?

As he turned the final corner, he pushed everything down, especially the fear. Right now he needed to make his case; he had to make someone believe, as he did, that Jack the Ripper or someone copying him had come to Melbourne. The earlier he could convince someone, the sooner the madman could be stopped.

He hoped.


	5. Chapter 5

Melbourne - June 21, 1929

 

The clank of the cell door closing behind Henry had startled him the first time. It was a heavy, resounding sound that echoed around the concrete walls and left his heart aching a little each time he heard it. The sound no longer startled him, no longer made him jump or look over his shoulder as the constable turned the key in the lock. Now the sound just settled another layer of dread over him.

 

It had been almost a week since he’d found the record of Margaret Ward’s death. He had been so hopeful that day. So sure that the Commissioner of Police would listen to him and put men on the case to start looking at the evidence from his new angle. Or at a minimum would give Henry his leave to look deeper into the case files himself. Six days and four nights in the holding cell had killed his hopes completely. Now he was desperate.

 

The Commissioner had laughed Henry out of his office, convinced that the doctor was just some nutball conspiracy theorist or possibly just looking for a bit of the limelight. Henry had refused to leave City Central though. Had instead taken a seat in the entryway and pulled aside every policeman he could, trying to get someone to listen and take action. Commissioner Bryant had not been pleased. He’d ordered one of his constables to show Henry to the cell to cool his heels overnight and then chuck him out onto the street in the morning.

 

Henry had not been deterred though. He’d gone home that first morning, grabbed a few hours sleep and a large meal, before heading straight back to the station to try again. And the next day. And the next. No one ever listened. The constables of City Central had started to refer to him as “The Madman” and today they hadn’t let him get more than three steps inside the building before he’d been surrounded by three young police and shepherded to the cell that he was becoming all too familiar with.

 

Hearing the keys turning in the door behind him, Henry released a heavy sigh.

 

“Why do you keep coming back, Morgan?” The question came from Henry’s right and the doctor glanced over as he plodded to a bench at the back wall and took a seat. The speaker was around Henry’s age (or at least around his apparent age), good looking despite the scar that ran from just above his left ear to under his chin, and dressed in ragged, but clean, clothes. 

 

Henry gave him a small smile. They’d had this conversation before, but today Henry really just wanted to lean back against the wall and contemplate his situation. He played along though, it wouldn’t take long after all and Henry rather liked the other man.

 

“Why do you, Robert?” He asked.

 

“Ah, you know.” He shrugged, “No work for me on the docks today and it’s a warm place to sleep.”

 

Henry did know. Of the four afternoons and nights that he’d spent in City Central lockup, Robert had been there for three of them. A veteran of the Great War, Robert had returned home to Melbourne to find that while he’d come through the war, his mother and father had not, both dying in an influenza outbreak. With no family and the vast majority of his boyhood friends never returning from war, he’d found it hard to make life work. He spent his nights on the streets in whatever corner or alley he could bunk down in and his days trying to make ends meet with occasional work on the docks, running errands for local shops, or doing chores no one else wanted to do at the posh end of town. And when no work presented itself, he’d turn up at City Central. If he made a bit of a fuss at the front desk, more often than not the constables would take pity on him and shove him in a holding cell where he could get a couple of good meals and a warm bed. Henry wished there was some help to find for the man, who he believed to be honest, polite and hardworking.

 

Robert’s voice dragged him out of his musings. “But you don’t need a place to sleep, so why do you bother to keep coming back, Doc?”

 

Henry sighed, “I’m trying to catch a murderer.”

 

The veteran huffed out a laugh. “You keep saying that and I know you believe it, but I still don’t see how getting yourself tossed in here each day is going to accomplish that.”

 

Henry had told Robert about why he was in Melbourne. About the murders and the one that the police had missed. The one he’d found. He told him that he believed that more deaths were coming. The other man had listened intently and then remarked on how getting locked up seemed a poor way to being going about things. And that was what he said the next time and the time after that.

 

“Maybe you’re right.” Henry’s voice was resigned as he leaned his head against the wall behind him and shut his eyes.

 

Robert didn’t respond. This was the first time that Henry had acknowledged that maybe his methods weren’t getting him anywhere and the other man could see the toll that events were taking on the doctor. Leaving him to think, as he clearly wanted to, Robert stretched himself on his bench and tried to get some shut eye. It’d be harder to do once the drunk and disorderly cases started showing up later that night.

 

On his own bench, Henry’s thoughts were running a mile a minute. He had been trying for the past six days not to fall prey to the despair that kept creeping into the edges of his mind. But Robert was right. This wasn’t getting him anywhere. He had tried to stay confident that he could somehow convince law enforcement that things were far worse than they thought, but it was getting him nowhere. The most he ever got was one of the young constables listening for a few minutes before booting him back onto the street.

 

It was time to change tactics. It had been almost three weeks since the last body had been found. If the killer was following the Ripper’s pattern it might only be a few more days before the next working girl turned up dead and after that…

 

Henry shuddered to think where things might go from there. The Whitechapel murders had only grown more violent as time had gone by. He had to find a way of stopping things in Melbourne before they went that far. But how? The police wouldn’t listen and he had no connections within the city that might be of use to him. He had already considered going to the newspapers with his story, but panic would not help the situation and putting what he knew in the papers might actually make things worse.

 

Refusing to give in to the blanket of dread that was slowly settling over him, Henry began running through everything and everyone he knew in Melbourne searching for a solution. Countless options began to tumble through his mind, each one thoroughly assessed before being dismissed, but he didn’t let it deter him. He had to find a way.

 

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Melbourne - June 22, 1929

 

Phryne entered Detective Inspector Robinson’s office at City South station more meekly than he’d ever seen her. With a heavy sigh she took the seat across from him.

 

“Well, that’s it. I’ve run out of options.” She pulled off her hat and tossed it on his desk before running fingers through her hair to tame the few out of place locks. Jack liked when she was like this - willing to let her carefully built walls of poise and proper dress fall in his presence - but he wished the circumstances were different this time. He hated seeing her so defeated, especially when he could offer no help in the matter.

 

“Miss McPherson fall through?” His tone suggested he already knew the answer and the only response he got at first was a short nod. After another moment of adjusting hair and scarf, she spoke.

 

“Yes. The man she saw was just a wharfie sneaking off to visit a mistress while his wife was busy with their three tots. So, a loathsome human being on the whole, but not our man.” She huffed out a short breath before standing and beginning to pace his small office. “How is this possible Jack? How does a man kill two women so violently in the middle of a heavily populated area and just disappear? It shouldn’t be possible.”

 

She spun to face him, her eyes wide and mouth turned in a heavy frown, but before he could offer any kind of comfort or answers, Collins interrupted, coming through the door and handing three files to Jack as he spoke.

 

“Three women if you believe the nutter at City Central.” He turned back to the door, but Phryne’s hand on his arm stopped him.

 

“Three women?” Her voice was incredulous, “What nutter?”

 

Hugh turned to look at her, “Constable Davidson told me about some fellow who turns up at City Central each day. Claims to have found evidence that there was a third woman. Or rather a first woman, killed by the same man months before we found Helen Baines.” He shook his head at the hopeful expression on her face, “He’s just some crazy off the streets, ma’am, Davidson says they call him The Madman. He claims that the women were killed by Jack the Ripper. It’s utter nonsense.”

 

With a final look between Miss Fisher and the Inspector, Collins left the office, this time closing the door behind him. After several moments of silence, she spoke first.

 

“Jack the Ripper? Seriously?”

 

“Cases like these bring out all kinds of crazies, Miss Fisher.” He stood and moved to the cabinet against the wall to put away the files that Collins had brought in as he continued speaking, “The more press a case gets the more outlandish the theories of people like this ‘Madman’ get.”

 

Phryne sighed again, accepting what he was telling her. She’d seen something similar during the war, when every new German offensive and victory had brought wilder and wilder tales of the enemy’s weapons and numbers. Wanting to believe something didn’t make it true. It also didn’t make the absolute defeat that she was feeling in the face of this case any easier.

 

Jack must have been feeling something similar. As he shut the drawer on the last file, she heard him mutter, so low that he must have been speaking just to himself, “Given how cold this case has gone, I might be willing to track down this Madman myself.”

 

Just as Phryne was going to suggest that they do just that, Collins was back, barely knocking once before he was opening the door and speaking.

 

“Inspector, there’s been a brawl at the docks. At least one man dead. Davidson called it in, he was walking his beat when the commotion started. He and Martin are securing the area.”

 

The new case pushed The Madman of City Central out of both Jack and Phryne’s minds as they headed out the door.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Contains reasonably graphic description of a mutilated body.

Melbourne - June 24, 1929

Jack paused before stepping into the alley. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself for the task ahead and then turned down the narrow walkway.

Despite his foreknowledge of what he was going to find, the sight still hit him hard and the heavy smell of blood turned his stomach. He was glad he hadn’t had time for breakfast this morning. The same couldn’t be said of two of his younger constables, who he’d passed on his way to the crime scene as they emptied their stomachs into a trash bin nearby.

The thing that stood out the most was the blood. The dark red of it was on everything: sprayed and smeared on the blue wall of the bakery to his right, a bit harder to make out on the rusty brown of the brick building to the left, and a large pool directly under the body. It stood out dramatically in the dingy setting.

The body was that of a middle aged woman, naked and brutally killed. Her abdomen had been slashed open from navel to sternum, her throat severed, and numerous additional cuts were plainly visible on every surface of her flesh. Judging by the amount of blood sprayed around, she had been alive during at least some of the violence. As he moved closer to the body, he couldn’t help once again thinking the thing that had been going through his mind since he was woken about the murder an hour earlier: ‘Not another one.’

All signs pointed to this being the same killer as the Helen Baines and Edna Clarkson cases. She had been identified as Ruth Elizabeth Nichols, prostitute and mother of three. The coroner estimated time of death as very early that morning, possibly late the night before. Canvassing had thus far turned up no witnesses, but the constables had only just started making their inquiries.

Jack wasn’t hopeful. There had been no witnesses in the previous two cases which meant that the killer was careful not to raise any suspicions and methodical enough to make Jack doubt that these were crimes of passion, at least not in the classical sense.

He spent the next hour and a half in the alley, looking over every inch of surface, trying to find anything, no matter how insubstantial, that might give him something to work with. He then headed back to his office to call Detective Inspector Troughton at City North. The previous two cases had been in the other man’s jurisdiction and now that it was cross jurisdictional, Jack’s interactions with him from the other murders would need to be formalized.

Jack sighed as he flopped down in his office chair. Sometimes he really hated the bureaucracy that surrounded his job. He shouldn’t need to fill out 20 forms to officially work across two jurisdictions of the same city. All of that should really fall on City Central, he had enough on his shoulders with this madman on the loose.

As soon as that thought crossed his mind, the memory of his conversation with Phryne two days earlier crossed his mind. And more specifically, Collins interruption and the loony that had been hanging around City Central.

Deciding that his phone call to City North could wait a few minutes he hollered out to the main desk, “Collins!”

The young man came at a scurry, nearly tripping over his feet several times in the process. When he pulled to a halt in front of Jack’s desk, the Inspector couldn’t help thinking of an eager puppy. It was an unfair comparison - Hugh might be naive and a tad too easily led, but he’d proved he could be a good policeman - and Jack shook it from his mind.

“Two days ago you told Miss Fisher and me about a man who had been hanging around City Central spouting wild theories about the Baines and Clarkson murders.” Jack paused a moment, waiting until recognition bloomed on Hugh’s face and the younger man nodded. “What do you know about him?”

Looking confused, Hugh began to speak, “Well, sir, Davidson’s sister works over there in records. And she told him about this guy who comes into the office everyday and tries to convince anyone who will listen that he’d found a first victim… That is, sir, a woman who was killed before Baines, not Baines herself…” Jack held back his impatience at the younger man. Hugh was a good policeman, but he certainly had a lot to learn about being concise. “And that we need to look into it.”

“Maybe we should.” Jack’s tone was serious as he leaned further back in his chair.

Hugh looked incredulous, was the Detective Inspector really going to waste resources on a man that had already been so thoroughly dismissed by the Commissioner? “Sir, the Commissioner and most of the senior staff at City Central have already talked to him. Presumably they’ve already looked into Dr. Morgan’s claims.”

It was the first time that Collins had named the man in question and Jack paused for a moment. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t put a finger on why. He mulled it over briefly before giving up. Morgan wasn’t an uncommon name, no doubt he was thinking of something completely unrelated. He stood and walked around his desk, addressing Hugh as he moved.

“But I haven’t.” Hugh looked confused, his eyebrows furrowing and his mouth opening slightly as he tried to make sense of his superiors actions. Jack continued, “Part of the job of a good policeman, Constable, is to never leave any stone unturned. This man claims to have evidence that applies to our case. Maybe he is crazy or just looking for attention, but I can’t just dismiss the possibility.” Jack paused and waited until Hugh had nodded in understanding. “If he does prove to be a joke, then the worst that will happen is that I’ve wasted a bit of time.”

Jack walked out of his office, Collins right behind him, grabbing his hat and coat along the way.

“And if he’s not a nutter out for a bit of the limelight, he could actually have valuable evidence. Or even be our killer.” Hugh looked taken aback by that notion. It had obviously never crossed his mind.

“Why would the murder putting himself so obviously in the line of the police, sir.”

“There are a couple of reasons: One, he may want to be caught, may want us to stop him from killing again. It’d be unusual, but not unheard of. Or, more likely, two, there may indeed be a death we missed. If he’s upset that we’re not giving him the appropriate amount of credit for his murders, he’d work hard to bring that to our attention.” Hugh nodded and pulled out his notebook to write down Jack’s comments. The older man let out a small amused sigh, trust Collins to try to track the logic of a psychopath the way he would fingerprints and murder weapons.

“Either way, I need to look into it.” He headed to the door, turning back briefly to give one last instruction to Hugh. “I’m going over to City Central to get their read on this Dr. Morgan and to get an address for him. In the meantime, see what you can dig up about him. Where he’s lived, where he studied, any police reports.” At Hugh’s nod of acknowledgement, he opened the door and headed out.

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The inspector had only been gone a few minutes when the door to the station opened and Miss Fisher and Dot entered. Hugh looked up from the materials in front of him, momentarily annoyed at the interruption to the task the Detective Inspector had set him. But as he took in the sight of his fiance and her employer, the annoyance disappeared.

“Good morning, Hugh.” Miss Fisher’s voice was not its normal cheery tone and he noted the dark circles around her eyes that makeup couldn’t quite hide and the slight hunch of her shoulders. She had obviously heard about their newest victim.

“Good morning.” He knew what her next question would be and answered before she could even ask, “The Inspector’s not here. He’s gone to City Central to find out about the guy who’s been hanging around there telling everyone that he has evidence of the case. I believe that he plans on bringing Dr. Morgan in for questioning.”

Just as had happening when Mac had said his name several weeks earlier, Phryne blanched slightly. Hugh didn’t notice and she pulled herself together quickly, throwing herself in to the case rather than let memories of the past take over.

“Dr. Morgan? The same Dr. Morgan that had been haunting the coroner’s archive a few weeks back?” The gears in her head were turning quickly, trying to remember everything that Mac had told her about the strange fellow who had helped with a teenage murder victim at the beginning of the month.

Hugh shrugged, he wasn’t sure what Miss Fisher was talking about, but also didn’t want to be caught completely useless, “Not sure, Miss. This Dr. Morgan has been hanging around City Central telling anyone who will listen that he’s found a victim we missed and that the cases are somehow connected to Jack the Ripper.”

Phryne didn’t respond immediately as she mulled over her possible next steps. Bringing in this Dr. Morgan seemed like a very good plan and she was slightly annoyed at herself for not thinking of it earlier. But there were certainly other avenues that this new line opened up for her.

“Let the Inspector know that I’ve gone to the coroner’s office to talk to Dr. MacMillan about our victim and anything she knows about Dr. Morgan.” She turned on her heel and was already out the door before Hugh could respond. Dot gave him a small smile as she followed her employer back out the door.

Phryne paused at the curb next to the Hispano obviously deep in thought. Dot waited next to her. She’d seen Miss Fisher like this before and didn’t want to interrupt whatever line of inquiry the older woman was currently considering. It didn’t take long before the energy and movement were back.

“Dot, why don’t you go over to the library and see what you can find out about the Jack the Ripper cases? I seriously doubt that this could be connected, but find out whatever you can. I’m going to go see Mac. I’ll meet you back here this afternoon.”

Phryne barely waited for her companion’s nod before she was climbing into the Hispano.

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Jack sighed heavily as he pulled the police car to a stop outside the small apartment building. His inquiries at City Central had not been positive or fruitful. Despite his assurances to Collins, he had not actually expected that anyone at the police headquarters would have looked into anything that their ‘Madman’ had said about the murder investigations and he was right.

Everyone at City Central had completely dismissed the man as a raving lunatic and had not made any moves beyond throwing him out on the street or shoving him in overnight lock up. At frustrated Jack to no end that there were times when he was not only having to fight against the criminals on the street, but also against the generally lazy level of police work in the city.

It was one of the reasons that he so entirely enjoyed working with Phryne on cases. She would never have been willing to just let a potential lead slide by, no matter how ludicrous and Jack knew that the high solve rate of City South was often down to her determination and stubbornness. As infuriating as it sometimes made the woman during various cases, it was an attitude that certainly got the job done more often than not.

The only thing that he had been able to get out of the desk clerk at City Central was Dr. Henry Morgan’s address, general information (Age: 35, Birth Place: London, Profession: Medical Doctor), and booking photo. Even in the grainy booking photo, Jack could tell that Morgan was well dressed, clean shaven, and generally well-kempt. The desk clerk had been able to tell the Inspector that the other man was well spoken, knowledgeable about a wide range of subjects, when he could be persuaded to discuss anything other than the murder cases, and unrelentingly polite. Even when being thrown in the station holding cell and obviously frustrated by his inability to convince anyone, Morgan would maintain a dignified and respectful manner.

As Jack stepped out of the car, he surveyed the building. Relatively new - certainly built after the war - tidy - no overflowing rubbish bins or lurking street kids visible from the roadway - and generally unremarkable. Most people on the streets walked by without even looking up at the plain facade and doorways.

Just as Jack was about to step onto the sidewalk and head into the building, he noticed a figure moving in his direction down the street. Dr. Morgan. On the whole the man was unremarkable. He walked with an even stride, his face calm, but not inviting. And he was dressed neatly, but without flare or much color, save the distinctive red of drying blood on his hands and shirt front. Passersby cast sideways glances at his stained shirt and Jack saw more than one of them look gratefully in the direction of the police car after they spotted the bloody man.

Jack approached the other man with caution. Pulling out his ID card and holding it in front of him as he spoke.

“Dr. Henry Morgan?” He kept his tone calm as he took a few steps down the sidewalk towards the other man who had stopped at hearing his name. Jack noticed that he didn’t seemed at all panicked at being approached by law enforcement. If anything his expression was one of weary acceptance, an emotion that was also in his voice as he spoke.

“Yes, that’s me.” Henry took a few steps towards Jack, briefly examining his raised ID, before stopping with a few feet between them. He continued, his voice holding well restrained annoyance, “I suppose someone called because of the blood?” He gestured at his front, “I can assure you that it’s nothing Inspector…” He trailed off, obviously expected an introduction.

“Detective Inspector Robinson, Homicide.” Jack closed his ID wallet and shoved it back in his pockets. This wasn’t at all how he had expected this encounter to play out and wanted to have both hands free if it took an even more surprising turn.

“Homicide?” Henry seemed genuinely surprised. “I know that I look a bit of a mess, but I hardly think that it warranted someone of your rank coming out to check on me.” He smiled, unnerving Jack even further.

“I’m not here about any call. I’m here to take you to the station, to question you about the death of a prostitute in the early hours of this morning.” Jack watched as the other man’s face went ashen, but pressed on, “And about the deaths of two other women over the past month and a half.”

Henry’s face was unreadable to the seasoned detective as he spoke, “Three other women actually.” The doctor shook his head, “I knew there would be more.” Now his tone was angry and Jack braced himself for a attack, but the other man just continued speaking, glaring as he did so. “I tried to get someone to listen to me; tried to make someone, anyone take notice. But no one did. Until now, and another woman is dead, who might not have needed to be if the police would have taken me seriously earlier.” He had been gesturing wildly as he spoke, but seemed to deflate suddenly. He looked Jack directly in the eye as he asked his next question, “And you think that I killed them?”

The whirlwind of emotion that the other man was going through surprised Jack, but he responded truthfully, hoping not to escalate the situation if possible.

“I don’t know if you killed them or not. I’ve only just come on the cases officially as this morning’s victim is the first inside my jurisdiction. I’m running down all possible leads and heard about your frequent trips to City Central over the last week or so. I just want to ask you some questions. And this certainly raises some new ones.” He gestured to Morgan’s bloody shirt.

Henry smiled slightly, “Yes, I suppose it would. But I can assure you, Detective Inspector Robinson, that I have not killed anyone and that I want to catch whomever has just as badly as you do.” The force of the sincerity in his voice shocked Jack and he stood silent for a long moment before coming back to the task at hand.

Stepping slightly to the side, he gestured to the police car waiting on the street, “If you’ll just come with me down to the station then, we can try to get everything sorted out.

Henry nodded and willingly preceded Jack to the parked vehicle.

X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

Jack was getting frustrated. He’d been interviewing Dr. Morgan for the better part of an hour and was getting nowhere. He had no idea what to think of the man who spoke so rationally and calmly about something as ludicrous as Jack the Ripper possibly being in Melbourne. 

There was a part of him that wanted to like the other man. He was polite, even when fervently arguing a point, intelligent, and self-confident without being arrogant. Under any other circumstances Jack was sure that he could be quite good friends with Henry. But these were not other circumstances and he pushed down that part of himself in favor of the side that was getting more and more suspicious of the other man by the moment.

For a start, he knew far too much about the recent murders, significantly more than had been covered by the papers. He’d told the Inspector that this knowledge came not from the Melbourne murders, but rather from the Whitechapel ones 40 years earlier, but Jack couldn’t shake the feeling that the man was hiding something within that statement. And the notion that a killer would resurface more than 40 years after his first kill to kill again was vaguely ridiculous. Even assuming that Jack the Ripper had been a very young man in England, he would be in his 60’s now. It hardly seemed likely that the man who had killed three women in a little over a month would be some pensioner.

Henry’s insistence that there was a fourth woman who had died three months prior to Helen Baines was also bothering Jack. The Doctor himself admitted that there were very few similarities between the cases. The ‘first’ victim had been raped by a group of men, severely injured during the process, and died of infection the next day after having time to give her statement to police about the attack. It was so different from the MO of the rest of the killings that Jack had tried to dismiss it out of hand. It was the only time that he’d seen Henry get really angry during the whole of the questioning. But again he had claimed the connection to the Whitechapel murders, frustrating Jack further.

Desperately trying to find a different angle, the Inspector returned to the first thing they had discussed after arriving at the station: the bloody clothes.

“Tell me again how you ended up with a shirt front and hands covered in blood.” Jack tried to keep his voice even, but knew that some of his irritation was bleeding through into his tone. Henry looked equally annoyed at the change of topic, but answered all the same.

“As I have already said: I was on my way to City Central to try, yet again, to get someone to listen to me.” he glared at Jack, his earlier calm somewhat deflated by the endless, repetitive questions. “I heard an argument down a side alley and looked in to see what the problem was. There were a group of kids, in their early teens, fighting over a sack that one of the younger ones had. They jumped the kid with the sack, punching and kicking him. I shouted and ran over. The older ones took off, one of them grabbed the sack, and I tried to help the younger one. He had a split lip and bloody nose, probably several other injuries that weren’t immediately obvious and I took him to the hospital to get looked at. You can confirm what I’m saying with the doctor and nurses that took charge of him. I was planning to go back and look in on him after I’d had a change of clothes.” His clipped tone and the way he glared at Jack suggested that the doctor was getting to the end of his patience where the questioning was concerned.

The Detective Inspector was just about to push further, hoping the other man might slip up in his anger, when the door to the interrogation room opened and Phryne walked in, speaking as she did.

“Jack, you really shouldn’t start interrogations without -” Her voice cut out as she got her first sight of the other man in the room.

Jack had never seen her go as white as she currently was. Not when Foyle had escaped prison. Not when she’d been taken prisoner aboard the slavers ship just a few months previous. Never. In the few seconds from when she had entered the room she had gone from her usual breezy self to resembling a statue, unmoving as the color drained from her face, her mouth slightly open in shock. He was about to stand and go to her, extremely unnerved by the look on her face, when she recovered herself slightly and spoke.

“Henry.” Jack tried to read the look on her face and her tone of voice, but despite how long he’d known her for, he couldn’t comprehend the confusing mix of shock, misery, happiness and relief that colored her features. He watched, unable to process what was happening as Henry stood, his face an equally confusing array of emotions, chief among them guilt.

“Hello, Phryne.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phryne’s age was a problem for me. The books have her born in 1900, so she’s 29 during the time period of this story. But the TV show, which is what this fic is based on, has Essie Davis in the role and she was 42 when the first episode aired. I went a bit younger than that, but definitely strayed from the book aging. This has her at 35 in 1929. This also keeps her right around Jack’s age based on his comments that he went to war a newlywed and was married 16 years (Raisins and Almonds). Assume he was 20 or so when he married, he’d be about 38 by this story. If any of that math bothers you… well, tough, because it’s my story and it works for me.

Melbourne - June 24, 1929

“Henry.”

“Hello, Phryne.”

She couldn’t believe her eyes, but she also couldn’t deny what they were telling her. Standing before her was Henry Morgan, who she had last seen more than a decade earlier.

The worst part of war, Phryne had decided very early during her time in France, was the noise. The constant, unrelenting noise. She’d been stationed at many places with her ambulance unit since she had joined up in early 1914 - defying her mother’s wishes to stay and help the war effort back home - but Verdun had been the worst so far. Even a mile back from the actual trenches, the noise was a surrounding force. It had already been four months of nearly unending mortar shelling and the kind of wounded soldiers that came with it. Four of the six months that she’d been stationed there the noise had been a constant backdrop to her life.

But there had been some good within the chaos and horror of the war as well. 

For a start, she felt useful - something she hadn’t felt since before she lost Janey - using the skills taught to her during her trauma control crash course to save lives. Or at the very least to give someone a little bit of comfort during their last minutes.

She’d also seen some amazing moments of human kindness amongst the insanity. Tired, hungry soldiers, many of them barely more than boys, who were having trouble keeping themselves together caring for lost and orphaned animals. Locals providing shelter and food when they themselves had so very little. Little things that kept her pushing forward through the moments when all she really wanted to do was curl up and cry for days.

And there was Henry. Charming, handsome, brilliant Henry, 15 years her senior, who had been in the trenches since the earliest moments of the war and who kept pushing everyday despite that. Or maybe because of it. 

She’d met the doctor on her first day at Verdun, introduced to him along with the rest of the medical staff at their post within moments of arriving. She saved a life with him on her second day there, a young digger, so young infact that she had no doubt that he’d lied on his enlistment papers. If he was a day over 16 she’d have been shocked. They failed to save a life together on her fourth day and when they could do no more she held the soldier’s hand in one of her own while reaching for Henry’s arm with her other. And he had hugged her tight as she cried afterwards, told her that it was good after years of seeing soldiers die that she could still care, could still cry for them.

She spent her 15th night at Verdun in his bed and a good deal of the nights after as well. As an officer and head of the medical division, he had the benefit of his own room, separate from the chaos of the rest of the hospital station. She had watched him from across the rows of beds after a particularly bad day, one filled with death and loss. Had seen his shoulders hunched, his hands still covered in the blood of the dead, as he exited the hospital. She hadn’t had a plan when she followed after him, invading his room without a care for the insubordination charges that might come down for it. 

He had been cleaning up at the small basin in the corner and didn’t immediately turn when she said his name. ‘Henry’ she’d whispered, not ‘Dr. Morgan’, the first time she’d used his given name. He dried his hands, set the towel back down, and paused for a long moment, his hands braced on the basin stand. Then he’d turned and moved decisively towards her. The rest of the night was a blur of hands and sighs and pleasure; a few hours without the noise and blood and fear of the front.

She wasn’t a fool, even at 20. She knew that this wasn’t love or forever or any of the things that the other nurses espoused of their own wartime lovers - for she was hardly unique in latching onto another person in the chaos - it was none of those things, but it was necessary. And she often found herself wondering if, when the war ended, when they went back to their lives, it could become all of those things. If they could go back to those lives together. But at that moment, at that place, it wasn’t. It was release and relief and sanity.

For six months he was her sanity. Her rock after working 16 or 20 hours with little to no rest, sometimes so covered in blood by the end of it that she could barely peel herself out of her clothes. It spoke volumes that no one ever questioned the relationship, never mentioned, even in passing, when she exited the hospital to his quarters rather than her own bed. 

There were plenty of jealous looks from the other nurses. That was to be expected. Henry was an extremely good looking man. He was kind and smart and, on the rare occasions when there was reason to exercise it, had a fantastic sense of humor. But even the jealous ones never said anything against it. It was an unspoken agreement on the front: you did what you did to get through each day, few to no questions asked.

On November 12, 1916, they had been visiting the trenches, performing basic first aid on various injuries not worthy of being sent behind the lines to the hospital station. They tried to do this every time the mortar shelling paused for even a hour or so, sending in teams of nurses and doctors as available to tend everything from trench foot to lice.

She and Henry had been working through a section of forward trenches occupied by relatively newly arrived British soldiers, bandaging minor cuts and dolling out dry socks, when the mortar shelling restarted. The noise had been deafening, so much worse than it was back at the hospital, and she had dropped her bag of supplies as she rushed to cover her ears. Henry quickly finished with the man whose barbed wire gash he’d been suturing and gestured for her to lead the way back to the rear trenches and the relative safety they provided.

She had turned and started to move, her hands still up over her ears and his hand on her back offering comfort and support, when an explosion had rocked the ground around her and Henry had been thrown into her back by the blast. She landed face first in the mud, his heavy weight half on her and it took her a long moment to realize why the world had suddenly gone silent save a steady ringing. Struggling against the mud and Henry, she’d managed to pull herself to a kneeling position and turn around. The devastation was worse than she could possibly have imagined possible.

The mortar shell had landed dead center at the far end of the trench segment and detonated, sending deadly shrapnel out in all directions, ripping apart earth, wood and flesh alike. Henry and her dash down the trench had brought them away from the worst of the blast. The men they had just been treating were all very obviously dead, most unidentifiable. She looked away, unable to handle the destruction before her. Her eyes landed on Henry and she let out a sharp cry that her still ringing ears couldn’t hear.

He was lying on his stomach, face just barely out of the mud, his back a mess of torn cloth and blood. She realized in an instant what had happened. He’d been behind her when the blast hit, his body protecting hers from the shrapnel. It had torn through him instead. But he was still alive.

Even as she watched, he managed to turn himself onto his side and reach out a hand towards her. Holding in her sobs, she moved to his side, grasping his hand in one of her own and slowly stroking his hair with the other. She had seen enough of this kind of injury to know that he would not survive, all she could do was stay by his side while he died. 

He tried to speak, but had barely opened his mouth when coughs wracked his body, blood flecking out from his lips with each hacking breath.

She wanted to tell him not to talk, but couldn’t bring herself to stop any last words that he might have for her. Instead she made soothing noises, holding his shoulders until the coughing had subsided. She was glad to be able to hear her own voice in her ears, though the sound was muffled unnaturally and seemed far off. She chided herself for caring about that when a man she cared deeply for lay dying in front of her.

“Phryne.” This time the word made it past his lips, though the effort it took appeared immense and set off another wave of heavy coughs. When he looked up at her again, there was blood seeping out of the corner of his mouth. She used the corner of her apron to wipe it off though it did little good, coated in mud as it was. She stroked his face with her hand, still murmuring the same soothing noises she’d used on a hundred dying men before him, desperately holding back her tears. 

He spoke again, “I’m sorry.” 

She was about to reply, tell him he had nothing to be sorry for, when the coughing restarted. It stopped abruptly and this time he didn’t look back up at her, his body completely still. Even before she set her hand against his neck, she knew. He was dead. 

She let loose the tears she’d been holding back even as she tried to convince herself to get up, to return to the hospital, there was nothing more she could do here. Just as she was about to struggle to her feet and force herself away from him, the impossible happened. She was looking directly at his body when suddenly it was no longer there. Nothing else in the trench had changed, but the body of Henry Morgan had disappeared.

Forcing her mind back to the present and the impossible man standing before her, she tried to process what was happening. Despite what her memories were telling her, there was no mistaking the man that stood in front of her, saying her name in a voice laced heavily with guilt and looking like he had not aged a day in the years that had gone by.

For a brief moment she thought she might pass out, her vision greying a little at the edges before refocusing. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Jack stand and take a half step towards her, so the distress she was feeling must be evident on her face. She shook her head slightly, mostly to pull herself together, but also partially to hold off his approach and concern. It seemed to work, he stopped moving.

Henry didn’t miss the non-verbal exchange. She wasn’t surprised. He had so rarely missed anything about the people he interacted with. Had sometimes been able to read and understand her own emotions before she even had a handle on them. The remembrance finally shook her out of her silence and she spoke.

“This is impossible.” Her voice wavered slightly over the words and she paused a moment to collect herself. When she continued on her voice was clear, though it still held an undertone of confusion which was rapidly turning to anger. “You… you died at Verdun. I saw it.” 

She wanted to say that she’d seen much more than just his death, but couldn’t bring herself to accuse him of vanishing. Not in front of Jack. She knew how crazy she would sound. As it was she could see the horror that her statement had etched across his face and the guilt that was quickly overtaking it. For one insane moment she wanted to laugh at the blame she knew he was currently throwing at himself for bringing her face to face with such a dramatic part of her past. As if he could have known. But the burst of crazy mirth was short lived as Henry spoke, his voice exactly as she remembered it.

“Not impossible. Just… complicated” His eyes bore into hers and she knew that he wasn’t talking about his death anymore than she had been. So she wasn’t insane. The knowledge didn’t comfort her the way she expected it to. She needed answers, real answers, and she knew she wasn’t going to get them with Jack in the room.

She kept her eyes on Henry’s face for a long moment, trying to find a way to frame her next request that wouldn’t hurt Jack, but she couldn’t find one. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she turned to face the Detective Inspector. He already knew what was coming, she could see the hurt and anger building in his expression, but she needed her answers. She would find a way to explain to him later, to make him understand.

“Jack,” she tried to fill her voice with all of the respect and affection that she felt for him, looking him straight in the eye, hiding nothing of her own worry about this request, it’s cause, and the toll it might take on them, “Could you please give us the room for just a few minutes?”

She watched as some of the anger receded from his expression, though the hurt stayed, as he read her tone and features. Jack Robinson, she thought to herself, the man who could read her better than anyone ever had. Even Henry had never really understood some of the things that he could see in her eyes. She had never told him of her sister or the extreme poverty of growing up the way she had. But Jack… he knew her, present and past. So, while it obviously hurt him to do so, she watched him clasp his lips tight and give her a curt nod before striding around his desk and past her. He didn’t so much as glance at Henry as he went.

She watched him go, considered reaching out and brushing a hand against his as he left, but thought better of it. He shut the door behind him and Phryne stared at the wood panelling for a long moment before turning back to the office. After a moment’s hesitation, she reversed Jack’s path, walked around his desk, and took a seat in his chair. With a deep breath she made eye contact with Henry and spoke in a clipped tone.

“Explain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will have Henry explaining to Phryne about his existence and his familiarity with the Ripper cases and then chapter 9 will go back to the same time as the start of this chapter, but follow Jack’s thoughts, so don’t worry, I’m definitely going to go in depth on how Jack feels about this man of Phryne’s.


	8. Chapter 8

Melbourne - June 24, 1929

“Jack, could you please give us the room for just a few minutes?”

Henry watched the Detective Inspector as Phryne made her request. The other man’s eyes had barely left her face since she walked through the door and Henry had seen the wide array of emotions that had played over his face in the few moments since. He rarely missed anything that went on around him and the detective had not been trying to hide his feelings, making it even easier for Henry.

The concern and fear that had played over his face as he stood when it had looked like Phryne might pass out. The momentary relief when she’d shaken her head and seemed to recover herself, which shattered when he’d heard that Phryne had watched Henry die at Verdun. Guilt had been his strongest emotion then, though Henry didn’t fully understand why. The hurt and anger as he deduced what she was about to ask him, confirmed as she spoke, her voice full of a level of affection Henry had never heard during the 6 months they had been together. And, finally, the anger receding slowly as they’d locked gazes, leaving only the hurt behind. 

For a moment, Henry thought that the policeman would refuse and was slightly surprised when he didn’t, but then again, he mussed, she had always been good at getting her way. Instead, he pursed his lips, gave Phryne a jerked nod, and strode from the room. Through the entire exchange, he had not looked at Henry once, his entire concentration on Phryne from the moment when he’d stood as though to catch her should she faint. As Detective Inspector Robinson moved past her, Henry saw Phryne’s hand twitch out towards him, as if she intended to grab his hand, but the motion didn’t go beyond that and she watched him leave, shutting the door after him.

She continued to stare at the door for a long moment after it had closed. When she turned back to the room, she gave Henry only a small glance before she moved past him and around the desk to sit in the detective’s vacated chair. He watched as some of the tension in her shoulders visibly dissipated as she sank into the leather seat. He stayed standing, waiting for her to regain her bearings and address him, which she did shortly, a deep breath the only lead in before she captured his gaze and spoke.

“Explain.”

One word. In a tone that Henry had never heard from her before, at least not when addressing himself. That tone held anger, disbelief, guilt, and no small amount of fear. He didn’t blame her. He remembered that day in Verdun just as clearly as she obviously did and he could only begin to imagine how his death and disappearance had affected her.

With a deep breath of his own, he resumed the seat across from her. He opened his mouth to speak only to shut it again, not really sure where to begin. It had been forty years since he had last told anyone about himself, or at least about the full extent of himself. And that experience had not gone well. He took another deep breath and reminded himself that Phryne deserved an explanation. And if she was still anything like the young woman she had been thirteen years previously, she wouldn’t rest until she had one.

“I’ll tell you everything.” He paused briefly, expecting her to interrupt, and continued on when she didn’t, “But I would ask that you let me finish. It’s not very believable and there’s a lot of it that I don’t understand myself, but I’ll tell you what I can.”

“Agreed.” Her tone was still clipped, but he would take what he could get. He was about to start his story when she spoke again. “And you’d be surprised by what I’m willing to believe at this moment. I saw you die and then watched your body vanish as if you’d never existed. And now you’re sitting in front of me, looking as though you haven’t aged a day. So I am willing to accept quite a lot right now.”

He nodded and gave her a small smile. Every word had been the Phryne that he’d known during the war. Blunt and no nonsense, driven by an odd mixture of pragmatism and infinite hope. It comforted him to know that despite the years between them, she was still the woman he knew. That thought drove him onward.

“It’s a long story. One that begins nearly one hundred and fifty years ago.” He watched her eyes widen at the implication, but continued on, “I was born in London in September of 1779. When I was thirty-five years old, I took a position as a doctor aboard a slave ship bound for America.” Now her eyes narrowed in disgust, whether at the idea of slavery or at what must appear to her to be a blatant lie on his part. He pressed on.

“The ship was owned by my father, who I had only just discovered was participating in the slave trade. It was still twenty years before Britain would abolish the trade of human beings, but I was already adamantly against the practice. When I failed to convince my father, I took the position with every intention of freeing those aboard.” 

Her expression had become unreadable and he expected that she would stop him at any moment, despite their initial agreement. He paused for a long moment, giving her the opportunity to do just that. Instead, she cocked her head to the side, silently asking him to continue.

“One night, I was checking out a slave who showed signs of sickness. Despite my assurances that the man showed no signs of cholera, the Captain of the vessel was convinced that he was afflicted. He ordered the man thrown overboard, lest the rest of his ‘property’ be contaminated.” His tone was one of disgust as he spoke of the Empress of Africa’s commander, but his tone gentled as he continued, “I refused to let him be killed for no reason and when I repeatedly stood in their way, the Captain shot me in the chest.”

Phryne’s eyes widened in recognition and Henry smiled at her uncanny ability to put two and two together. More than once during their relationship at Verdun, she’d asked him about the scar over his heart. He’d deflected the question many times, but now she finally knew the truth. He nodded in answer to her unasked question and rubbed an unconscious hand across his chest.

“Then they threw me overboard. I assume that they did the same with the other man, but I have no knowledge of what happened to ship or crew or cargo after I was thrown over the side and left for dead. And I did die. I just didn’t stay that way.”

Phryne sat forward in the opposite chair, recognizing that he was now getting to the information she really longed for.

“Something happened that night. I was transformed. My life is just like yours. Except for one small difference: it never ends.” Her expression said that she considered that to be more than a small difference, so he tried to explain what he meant. “I still feel love, pleasure, pain. I’ve lived a full life. Been madly in love, had my heart broken, fought in numerous wars, and seen more than my fair share of death. In my long life, I’ve experienced many ends, but only that one beginning.”

He gave her a tight smile, knowing that she was bound to give him plenty of grief following his next admission.

“Since that night, more than a century ago, every time I die, I always return in water.” He took a deep breath and, finding himself suddenly shy despite their history, looked down at his hands as he continued, “And I’m always naked. Lends itself to some slightly awkward situations.”

A burst of laughter drew his attention back to the woman across from him. She had covered her mouth quickly with her hand, but he could see her shoulders shaking as she silently laughed at him. He shook his head at her, glad that after 150 years, he was no longer prone to blushing. And he could see the humor in it as well, though he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of letting her know that.

Glaring in her direction, he waited until she had stopped laughing. “Now you know as much about my condition as I do. All I know for certain is that the pain is real. It’s just the dying part that’s not.”

He paused, not sure how best to proceed. Deciding to ignore earlier details of his life for the time being, he skipped straight to that moment in Verdun. “After I died at Verdun.” Her quick intake of breath didn’t deter him. She had asked him to explain and so he would. “I awakened, for lack of a better word, in the Meuse River several miles north of the trenches, behind German lines. I was taken prisoner while attempting to steal clothing from a supply train and spent the next 16 months in a prisoner of war camp, before escaping with 6 others. By the time I made it back to England four months after that, the war was nearly over and I had been declared dead at the front. I worked in a London hospital under a false name until 1919 and then went to New York. I moved to Sydney three months ago.”

He paused briefly, studying her features. Relief, curiosity, and awe were the predominant emotions, but he could see that not all of her anger had completely dissipated. For the first time in their association, Henry found himself uncertain what she was thinking. She seemed to be trying to collect her thoughts, which he understood perfectly. Even after more than a hundred years of living it, he still had trouble taking in his reality sometimes. As he waited for her to speak, he realized that he had left out something very important in his story.

“I’m sorry, Phryne.” She looked up from where she’d been studying the desk in front of her and looked him in the eye as he continued. “I can’t imagine what you went through after my body vanished in that trench and I would never have chosen for you to find out in that way. I know-”

“Would you have told me?” She cut him off, her words more curious than condemning, her tone even as she continued to stare him down.

“I don’t know. Honestly, it’s not something that I thought about one way or the other. It seems strange, I’m sure, but on the front, surround by death, I never really thought about the possibility of my own.” He took a deep breath unsure how much he should share with her, but she deserved full answers. “I’m not sure that I would have. I’ve told people before - people that were important to me, who I believed I was important to - and it has not gone well.” He paused as images of Nora, his wife, and the asylum she’d sent him to flashed through his mind, but shook them off quickly and continued, “So, maybe.”

He shrugged, not sure what else there was to say. She nodded thoughtfully and they sat in silence for a long moment before she spoke.

“I thought that I was going insane. Thought the front had finally gotten to me.” Her voice was low, he was barely able to make out the words. “I didn’t tell anyone, I didn’t dare. When they declared you dead, I just told myself over and over again that I had imagined it. And eventually I convinced myself.”

Henry nodded, “I’m can not express how sorry I am for the hurt that must have caused you.” He paused until she was looking at him again, “You were…” He gulped, not really sure that he should be admitting this to her. “You were the first person in that hell that I felt understood me. That understood the drive to heal, the need to save at least a few even as the many died around us. And you were the first person in 60 years that I could imagine trying to live a normal life with. I don’t know…”

He trailed off, not sure what else he could say. He wanted her to understand, to know that she had meant so much to him. In six months, in the middle of a horrific war, she had become his best friend.

The clenched feeling in his stomach dissipated as she smiled at him. A real, full smile. The first she’d given him since she walked into the office ten minutes earlier.

“I thought about it too. Thought about whether, after the war, we could be something real.” She paused before adding, “Back then.”

He understood what she was trying to tell him with that addition. He smiled, glad that he could read her expression, could understand everything she wasn’t saying in that moment. That she had considered it once, in the past, but that they wouldn’t just be picking right back up where they had been. He wasn’t surprised. The thirteen years between them would have been enough to give him pause as well, even if he hadn’t seen how she and Detective Inspector Robinson interacted earlier.

He nodded at her, acknowledging everything she hadn’t said. They sat in silence for long moments, before she seemed to shake herself back to the present. 

“What do you know about our murders?” 

Her voice was stern and it took him a moment to switch gears back to the deaths that had troubled Melbourne for five months. He hoped that this change up meant that she did truly believe him. But whether she did or not, there was a more pressing concern and he was glad to finally be talking to someone who might actually listen to his evidence about the murders.

“I know what was published in the papers. I know what I’ve read in the coroner’s reports. And I know that each of these murders directly mirrors the Whitechapel murders of 1888. The murders attributed to an unidentified killer known as Jack the Ripper.” He held her gaze as he spoke, his tone even and confident. “And I know that because-”

“You were there.” Her voice was a mixture of surprise and incredulity. And when he nodded in confirmation, she huffed out a short laugh and shook her head. “Of course you were.”

“They’re almost identical.” His tone was still serious despite her seeing the humor of the situation. “The prostitutes, their ages, and the exact manner of death in each case. Starting not with Helen Baines as the papers have reported, but with Margaret Ward, who - exactly like Emma Smith in 1888 - was raped by multiple adult males and one teenager and died a day later of a rupture peritoneum.”

She gaped at him, trying to assimilate this new information, but he wasn’t done.

“And there were eleven total deaths over three years in Whitechapel. There’s no definitive evidence that all of them were committed by the same individual, but if it’s the same person or a devoted copycat there could be as many as seven more deaths in the near future.”

This time, she didn’t pause for a moment, taking in the information in a heartbeat.

“You need to tell Jack.” She stood and walked around the desk to perch on the corner in front of him. “Not just about the similarities between the cases. Everything. You know things about those cases that no one who wasn’t there could possibly know and Jack will realize that. You won’t be able to hide this secret from him, not while helping solve the case.”

He stared at her in disbelief. Hadn’t he told her that telling people had never gone particularly well in the past? How could she expect him to just tell the detective who seemed so convinced that he was the killer? She seemed to read his thoughts.

“I understand that this isn’t the ideal, telling him after he brought you in on suspicion of murder, but we need your knowledge if we’re going to catch this guy before he kills again. And Jack has no reason to listen to you, any more than any other detective has in the last few weeks, without telling him the whole truth.”

“You and he are obviously close. Surely, you vouching for me-” He stopped speaking as she shook her head.

“Jack isn’t some stupid cop. He may only have seen us interact for a few, very bizarre, moments, but he will have recognized that we’re former lovers. He’ll assume that I’m letting that relationship cloud my judgement. There’s just too much evidence against you at this point. Circumstantial though it may all be.” She sighed heavily before continuing. “I trust Jack completely. And trust is a lot harder for me these days than it was thirteen years ago.” Henry could tell that there was something she wasn’t telling him with that statement, something that had happened, maybe someone, that had caused the shift, but she continued on without more detail.

“If there was any other way, Henry… I don’t know if he’ll believe you, but you have to try, for the sake of this case.”

He groaned and dropped his head to his chest. Phryne Fisher had always been good at getting what she wanted by whatever means she deemed reasonable. It didn’t seem that that had changed at all. And she was right. If he didn’t try everything in his power to be a part of the investigation and another woman died… 

He’d blame himself. Forever.

He looked back up at her and he could tell from the renewed glint in her eyes that she was well aware that she had won.

As he opened his mouth to tell her not to gloat, the door behind him crashed open, slamming hard against the wall and rebounding back toward the face of an irate Jack Robinson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally took the vast majority of Henry’s explanation about his condition from the Pilot episode of ‘Forever’. I don’t own it. Those words were written by Matt Miller. I just reordered them slightly. And for anyone who watches ‘Forever’, I like to imagine that Henry was less careful - not about his secret, but with people - before he met Abigail.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter takes place over the same time period as the last two chapters, but from Jack’s perspective.

Melbourne - June 24, 1929

"Henry." 

Jack tried to read the look on her face and her tone of voice, but despite how long he'd known her for, he couldn't comprehend the confusing mix of shock, misery, happiness and relief that colored her features. He watched, unable to process what was happening as Henry stood, his face an equally confusing array of emotions, chief among them guilt.

"Hello, Phryne."

He still wasn’t entirely clear what was going on, but two things stood out for Jack in that moment. The first was that somehow Phryne knew their suspect. His mind briefly flashed back to three weeks earlier when Dr. MacMillan had first mentioned the doctor. Phryne’s reaction then had been similar to her current expression: shock and confusion. 

The second thing that struck Jack was the way Dr. Morgan said her name. He said it in the same tone that Jack knew he himself used: familiar and full of affection. But behind that, Jack could hear guilt and he didn’t like it.

Long seconds stretched by and Jack watched as Phryne paled. Worried that she might be only moments from passing out, he stood and started to move around his desk towards her. He’d made it only a single step before she shook her head. She still wasn’t looking at him, her eyes locked on Henry, but the signal was clear after all the time they’d known each other. He stopped moving, but remained standing, not entirely convinced.

Her next words sent a stab of horror through him.

“This is impossible.” Her voice was shaky and filled with disbelief. She paused and Jack could see in her expression the effort it was taking to keep herself together. “You… You died at Verdun. I saw it.”

Jack had known Phryne long enough to know that there was something that she wasn’t saying. He glanced briefly at Dr. Morgan, whose expression verified that suspicion for the Inspector. Whatever it was that wasn’t being said, Henry understood perfectly. Jack wished he did. It might have helped with the guilt that had shot through him when she’d spoken. He’d brought her face to face, literally, with a reminder of a grim part of her past. He had no idea how he would react if he was put in a room with some of the friends he’d seen die during the war, but he didn’t think he would take it as well as Miss Fisher seemed to be doing.

Henry’s response brought him out of thoughts of war and death.

“Not impossible. Just…” He paused and Jack thought he could detect a hint of mirthless humor in his voice when he continued, “Complicated.”

Again Jack thought there were something going unsaid there, but before he could analyse it further, Phryne was turning to look at him, her face apologetic in a way he rarely saw. It didn’t comfort him. Instead it set him on edge. He knew what that look meant and he could feel the anger begin to boil in him as she opened her mouth to make the request he knew was coming.

“Jack.” Her voice held the same apology as her expression and more affection that they usually allowed themselves in professional settings. “Could you please give us the room for just a few minutes?”

His first instinct was to reject her request, but as he looked her in the eye, he felt some of his anger dropping away. She looked worried and confused, the situation obviously getting to her more than she was letting on. That she would want him out of the room, didn’t trust him enough with whatever was happening with her and Henry, hurt, but despite that he couldn’t bring himself to make this all harder on her.

He nodded his head, breaking the eye contact they’d been maintaining, and pressed his lips tight together to hold back the many things he wanted to say as he walked to the door. He reminded himself as he stepped past her, not glancing at Henry, that there were very few things about their pasts that they hadn’t shared with each other. He hoped that she would trust him enough to tell him about this as well, when she was ready.

He closed the door behind him, not meeting her eyes as he did so, the anger once again rising to the surface. This anger wasn’t about her request for the room or at Henry for the murders, instead it was a quiet rage at the reality that once again another man from her past had turned up. Stepping into the main lobby of the station, he began pacing as his thoughts raced.

For the two years that he had known Phryne Fisher, he had found a bond with her that he’d never known with any other person in his life. Even in the earliest days of their association, when his annoyance at her interference in his cases had been at it’s height, he had found her to be a kindred spirit. They had formed a professional relationship based on their mutual desire to see justice and formed a friendship based on a mutual, largely unspoken, attraction, similar past experiences, and a wide variety of shared general interests including a love of books and an unexpectedly similar sense of humor.

In the beginning, he had found it difficult to balance the professional and the friendship with his intense attraction to her, but it had gotten easier as time went by. Not because he was any less attracted to her - if anything the better he knew her the more he wanted her - but because he had begun to let himself enjoy the game they played. The flirting and innuendo had been fun. And it had been a long time since he’d had the chance to use those skills. Even before the war, Rosie hadn’t been interested in that kind of overt show of interest.

And as time had gone by, the balance was easier because something happening between them had started to feel inevitable. His marriage had been officially ended. The biggest demons of her past - Dubois and Foyle - had been vanquished. The nightcaps and conversations late into the night, the sharing of the past - triumphs and nightmares alike - and veiled barely spoken hopes for the future had made him sure that they were on a solid path toward something more than friendship and flirting. Toward something real.

But how were they supposed move forward if men from her past, men she obviously had a romantic history with, kept showing up? 

The speed of his pacing increased as the real source of his agitation came back to mind. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Collins worried expression. The younger man’s expression displayed his marked concern for his superior’s behavior, but Jack couldn’t find it in himself to care or dispel the Constable’s worries as he continued his movement across the station floor.

And Henry! Why was it that so many of her past lovers ended up as murder suspects in his precinct? And why did she always have to take their side? It was infuriating. Add in the fact that Dr. Morgan - he sneered the title in his mind - had not had enough respect for her to let her know he wasn’t dead. Despite Jack’s sense that there were things that weren’t being said in that regard, he knew Phryne well enough to know that up until the moment that she had walked into his interrogation, she had truly believed that Morgan was dead. The other man had done nothing, in more than 10 years, to dissuade her of that notion, to let her know that he was okay. And if the grief of losing him had, in anyway, been a factor in her staying in her relationship with Rene Dubois, Jack would hold Henry as doubly guilty.

He had just turned for another lap of the floor when he heard the station door open behind him. Forcing the anger from his mind, he turned, ready to deal with whichever member of the public needed help. His expression of patient helpfulness changed to one of mild surprise when the person entering turned out to be Miss Williams. A large smile broke across his features as he took a step forward to greet her. As infuriating as he frequently found her employer, he was always genuinely glad to see the young woman and had been extremely happy about his constable’s deep attachment to her.

“Miss Williams, it’s a pleasure to see you.” He was also glad to have something to take his mind off of the meeting happening in his office. He hoped that her visit was unrelated to the case at hand. Maybe an errand for Mr. Butler or just stopping by to see Hugh. Something that would keep him occupied while Phryne and Henry were in his office. “What can we help you with today?”

“I thought Miss Fisher was here.” Jack’s shoulders sagged a little at this, his hopes for a non-Phryne related errand crushed. “She had sent me to the library to get any information I could about Jack the Ripper and the London murders forty years ago.” She raised the small stack of books and papers she was carrying and set them down on the counter. “There wasn’t a lot of information available. Just a couple of books about the cases; I’ve glanced through and noted some useful pages.”

As she sorted through the stack and made neat piles of her notes and the books, Jack moved to stand next to her looking down at the information. Dot continued to speak, her voice now heavy with concern.

“The library didn’t have any copies of the newspapers of the time. The librarian was going to check with the University and see if they have any, but this book here,” She picked up a medium leather volume and started thumbing through, using a sheet of her notes as reference for specific page numbers, “has some of the newspaper text in it. It’s limited, but useful.”

She frowned as she looked Jack in the eye and continued.

“If these newspaper entries are any indication, they didn’t report on much of the details of the deaths. Not enough for someone to recreate the murders using them at least. This one,” she picked a larger, leather bound tome from the pile, “goes into more detail.” She flipped to a page in the middle, the beginning of a chapter titled ‘Mary Nichols’. “I don’t know what to make of it Inspector, but based on this book, it looks like Edna Clarkson, the woman killed a month ago, died nearly the exact same way as Mary Nichols did in 1888.”

She shifted aside so Jack could take a better look at the books. It didn’t take him long, given Miss Williams thorough and neatly written notes, to read through the Whitechapel victim descriptions from the leather volume. Dot was right. The murders that they were experiencing were nearly identical to those four decades earlier and half a world away. He couldn’t be sure how closely matched the two sets were without sending away for copies of the original police notes and coroner’s reports, but he saw enough to be deeply disturbed by it all.

And not just by what he was reading. Or how it matched to the current crime scenes. What bothered him more was how exactly the descriptions matched what Henry had described to him of the Whitechapel cases. Reading through the chapter on Eliza Chapman, he could pick out the consistencies with the body they had found today. He could also remember the things that Henry had told him about Chapman’s death. Things that weren’t in this book, but had been true of Ruth Nichols death this morning.

The anger rose in him again, higher than it had been earlier. Whoever Henry had once been to Phryne, no matter what had happened between them, at this point Jack had no option than to arrest him on suspicion of murder. There was no reasonable way for Henry to know the things he had known about the Whitechapel murders or the current Melbourne ones unless he had committed them himself. 

Picking up the larger of the volumes Miss Williams had brought with her from the library he turned away from the desk and stepped towards his office. He didn’t even notice Dot’s question about Miss Fisher’s whereabouts as he moved, nor did he hear Hugh’s response. His entire being was focused on ending the conversation that was happening on the other side of the door he now faced and bringing a killer to justice.

He was just about to open the door when a jarring thought stopped him. He paused, hand outstretched for the door handle, as it occurred to him that his reaction to the situation might have nothing to do with evidence and motive. Taking a deep breath he forced himself to truly examine his own emotions and motivations. Was he only jumping on Dr. Morgan because of his past with Phryne? Was the evidence he had enough to arrest the other man? Or was his jealousy clouding his judgement?

He stood stationary, staring at the door, for long moments as he contemplated the events of the last half hour. His conclusions calmed the stab of guilt that he’d felt: what little physical evidence they had didn’t contradict Henry as the killer and the circumstantial evidence combined with the other man’s in-depth knowledge of the crimes certainly made a good case against him. Good enough for Jack to hold him for further questioning and for a search of his home. And while Phryne’s past relationship with Dr. Morgan certainly heightened Jack’s indignation and dislike of the man, it wasn’t causing him to change the facts to suit the conclusion.

He reached for the door handle again and schooled his face into the hard, angry expression that had always served him best when arresting the worst of the worst. Turning the handle quickly, he pushed it forcefully open. Enough force to send it slamming into the wall behind.

Stepping into his office he took in the scene. Phryne sitting in his chair, the slight smirk curving her mouth dissolving into surprise at his entrance. Henry seated in the chair opposite her, his shock at the noise of Jack’s entrance less pronounced than hers but still there. He took another step and turned to face Henry full on.

“Henry Morgan, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder for the deaths of Helen Baines, Edna Clarkson, and Ruth Nichols.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested in the 1888 murders mentioned: a brief history. Between 1888 and 1891 eleven violent murders were committed, mostly against prostitutes, in the Whitechapel area of London. None of the eleven were ever solved cases. These cases together are known as "The Whitechapel Murders". Five of these cases - starting with Mary Ann Nichols in late August 1888 and ending with Mary Jane Kelly in November 1888 - were considered by most authorities at the time and many academics since to be the work of a single killer: the serial killer we know as 'Jack the Ripper', a name given to him by the newspaper of the time. 
> 
>  
> 
> The other six murders - two before Nichols, four after Kelly - and the identity of their killer are frequently disputed by historians. Some academics deny any connection to the Ripper, while others believe that there is a clear escalation of violence from the first case at least through Kelly. Everything is up for debate with this for two major reasons:  
> 1\. Forensics was a nearly unheard of concept at the time, generally limited to visible evidence (fabric, dirt, etc.), and things that could be compared with basic microscope technology.  
> 2\. Criminal profiling as we know it today did not exist. The theory was first expounded in the 1950s. And the FBI didn't begin using profiling techniques until the 1970s. The phrase "serial killer" wasn't coined until this time period (so my use of it by my characters in this story is, yes, anachronistic).   
> So, there is no knowing for certain which, if any, of the murders during this period were committed by the same individual. In the case of the Whitechapel murders, it wasn't even police that first suggest that there may be a link between the murders. It was the newspapers.  
> In the case of my Melbourne murders, well... You'll just have to keep reading to find out who the killer or killers is and what, if any, connection they might have to the Ripper and the collected Whitechapel Murders.


	10. Chapter 10

Melbourne - June 24, 1929

“Henry Morgan, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder for the deaths of Helen Baines, Edna Clarkson, and Ruth Nichols.”

Inspector Robinson’s tone brooked no argument. Henry wasn’t surprised that the officer was bringing charges against him, even he had to admit there was an awful lot of circumstantial evidence to suggest his involvement, up to and including his own recent obsession with the Melbourne murders. Robinson hadn’t seemed completely convinced of his guilt and certainly not ready to officially arrest him before he’d left the room, so it was obvious to Henry that something had changed, possibly something connected to the leather tome he currently held. So he wasn’t completely surprised by this declaration. He was, however, somewhat bewildered at the anger blazing in the other man’s eyes.

During Henry’s 149 years, he had become an astute observer of human behavior and nature. He’d seen every version of every emotion a dozen times over on a hundred different faces. Anger was one of the most complex, second only to love. It could be felt at one’s self and projected onto others, it could manifest as heated arguments or cold silence, and be felt at various different levels of a person’s being without affecting the other levels: professional, marital, personal.

The anger that burned so hot in Inspector Robinson’s eyes and the hard set of his mouth, wasn’t the professional enmity of the cop versus the criminal, it was deeper than that, with a component of personal rage that didn’t have anything to do with the man’s job. And Henry couldn’t place it immediately.

It wasn’t until he heard Phryne stand behind him and come to his defense that he understood.

“Arresting him on what grounds precisely?” 

Her tone held indignant disbelief and Henry saw the anger in the Inspector’s eyes flare as she spoke. The reaction cemented the situation in his mind, Robinson’s anger wasn’t about Henry’s supposed criminal activity, at least not only. This anger was personal, directed inward and at Phryne as much as it was at Henry himself. It was an anger born, he suspected given his observations during their earlier interactions, more of his and Phryne’s relationship 13 years earlier than of anything else.

Before he could really contemplate that information in its entirety, his focus was drawn back to the matter at hand by Robinson’s voice. The other man had turned to face Phryne, but Henry could still see the range of emotions playing across his face.

“I’ve just spoken with Miss Williams, who, at your request, had pulled all information the library had available regarding the London murders of Jack the Ripper.” None of the anger in his expression bled into his voice. Instead, he spoke in a cold, unemotional tone which Henry recognized as the one he himself used in those moments when what he really wanted to do was scream or throw things or punch the nearest wall. It was the voice he used to retain his control. 

The Inspector took in a deep breath before continuing, “She wasn’t able to find much, but she brought what she was able to locate. No original newspaper articles, but a few books about the 1888 murders. They contain some text from the London newspapers as well as descriptions of the deaths. However, even those descriptions fall far short of the information that Dr. Morgan-” He turned back to look at Henry before continuing, “has already provided me about the current murders.”

Henry could feel a slight sense of dread building in his stomach. Phryne was right. Robinson was a good detective and had taken in every word of what Henry was telling him, even if he had scoffed at the Ripper connection that Henry had tried to put forth. Henry risked a brief glance at Phryne, but turned his attention quickly back to the officer, not comforted at all by the ‘I told you so’ expression that painted her expression alongside confusion and guilt. As Robinson continued to speak, Henry felt a feeling of inevitability surfacing.

“Even if Sydney has a better source of information on these Ripper murders, I find it very difficult to believe that Dr. Morgan would have access to the amount or detail of information that he presented to me before you arrived, Miss Fisher.” There was a slight coldness to the way the other man said her name, a coldness that had most definitely not been there earlier. He gave her a hard glare before turning back to Henry, “You also need to explain to me how you knew so much about this morning’s murder when we don’t even have an autopsy report yet.”

As Robinson spoke, Henry knew that he was going to have to follow Phryne’s earlier advice. He was going to have to trust Inspector Jack Robinson with his secret, otherwise there would be no convincing the other man that he hadn’t committed the murders. There was no way of explaining his knowledge of all of the earlier cases let alone this morning’s murder without telling the Inspector how he knew so much about the Ripper cases. Even his access to the morgue archives wouldn’t be enough as cases less than three months old weren’t archived or available to anyone not on staff. Henry didn’t mind the idea of being falsely imprisoned for the horrible crimes nearly as much as he feared that if Robinson believed that he has his culprit, he would stop looking for the actual killer until it was too late. Until another body had been found while Henry was in custody. 

He still wasn’t sure that he could convince the Inspector with words, but at this point he was willing to prove his immortality the old fashioned way, though he certainly hoped that Phryne’s word would carry enough weight to make that unnecessary. As much as he knew that dying wasn’t a permanent state for him, it was still at best an unpleasant experience and usually a highly painful one. And Phryne had already seen him die once before her eyes. He didn’t want to put her through the pain of watching him kill himself for the sake of argument.

Robinson had paused to glance back and forth between himself and Phryne, perhaps confused by the look of deep contemplation and resignation on Henry’s face, perhaps just trying to further hit home his point. As Henry came to his final conclusion, he steeled himself for the consequences of his revelation, but the Inspector began speaking again before he could, directing his comments purely at Henry.

“So, you are under arrest, unless you can tell me exactly how you know so much about these murders.” His tone made it very clear that he didn’t believe for even a single moment that Henry would be able to do such a thing.

Henry took a deep breath, still not entirely convinced that this would end with anything other than him and Phryne locked away in an asylum somewhere, but could see no other option. He released it with a sigh as he stood, needing to be on his feet. Robinson took a step towards the door and pushed it closed, as though he expected Henry to try to make a break for it. With another deep breath, Henry spoke, his voice calm and even.

“I know about these murders because I know about the Whitechapel murders.” He paused for a brief moment, “And I know about the Whitechapel murders because I was there.” He saw the incredulity pass across the other man’s face, but pushed on before he was interrupted. “I was a doctor in London at the time and was called in to examine a number of the Whitechapel victims. I have detailed journals; things that were in the police reports, newspaper clippings, as well as my own observations of the murders and the investigations.”

He stopped speaking, providing a chance for Inspector Robinson to chime in, but he just stared at Henry, his mouth slightly agape and shock painted across his features. For a brief moment, Henry thought that the detective had believed him, that the shock was at his story, but then the other man’s silence ended and Henry’s hopes fell away.

“Do you seriously expect me to believe that you were not only alive in 1888,” Robinson’s tone was eerily calm, his face set as though made of stone. It was obvious from the contemptuous edge to his words that he didn’t think Henry was crazy, instead he believed it was all a lie that Henry thought he was stupid enough to believe, “but that you were old enough to be practicing medicine at the time? I doubt you were even alive 41 years ago.”

Under normal circumstances, Henry might have found the comment mildly flattering while admiring the man’s excellent judge of age, but all he could think was that it really was going to take a demonstration to convince the Inspector of the truth. He wasn’t looking forward to that, but would do it if necessary. He had made that decision before he’d even opened his mouth. Before he could explain or offer to show him, Robinson had turned to look at Phryne.

“And you.” His tone softened only marginally as he spoke to her, “You were so convinced that he couldn’t be our killer. And now? Are you going to defend this ridiculous attempt to escape justice.”

He turned back to face Henry, obviously about to continue, but Phryne’s response stopped him from speaking further.

“He’s telling the truth, Jack.”

This wasn’t the forceful Phryne who had earlier demanded that he explain his grounds for arresting Henry. Her tone was soft, sincerity in every word. This was the Phryne that Henry had watched in the trenches; the woman who comforted dying men. This was the woman who he had once seen a potential future with, if they made it through the war.

Robinson turned to face her, his expression one of surprise and no small amount of hurt. Henry thought he could understand what the other man was feeling. He was so sure that Henry was lying and then to find Phryne backing the story. Henry imagined, given his interpretation of the man’s earlier anger at their obvious past connection, that the detective felt betrayal; like she was choosing Henry over himself, even under such circumstances.

The two stared at each other for a long moment before she spoke again.

“He is telling the truth, Jack. Remember when I said I’d seen him die at Verdun? I did. A mortar shell exploded in a trench where we were treating some men. He shielded me from the shrapnel and then died right in front of me.” Her voice was steady, despite the obvious pain the recollection brought with it. 

Henry watched Robinson’s face contort in confusion. This would be the real test he thought. Either the Inspector’s trust in Phryne was absolute and he would let her explain, let Henry demonstrate. Or he wouldn’t. He would do what Nora had done and lock them both up. Because there was no mistaking that Phryne believed she was telling him the truth, so Robinson would either have to believe or consider them both crazy.

“He died. I felt his pulse stop. And then…” She paused, taking a deep breath before continuing, “he vanished.” Another pause as she studied the detective’s face for anything beyond the shock that was so clearly painted on it. She must have found something that gave her some hope, because her voice was light as she continued. “His body vanished, Jack. Without a trace, like he had never been there.”

She glanced over at Henry briefly before looking back at the stunned man, “I tried to convince myself that he hadn’t been there. Succeeded even. It was impossible, after all. Just shock and the horror of losing someone important to me messing with my mind.” A small smile graced her lips as she took a step towards the Inspector. “But it was real, the proof is standing in this room.”

Henry watched the other man’s face for a long, silent moment before speaking. He still wasn’t sure the detective believed a word they were saying, but at least the shock and confusion were wearing away in light of Phryne’s words. Doubt was still painted across his features, but his faith in Phryne was obviously causing him to at least pause and take everything in.

“I recognize that this is all both unbelievable and hard to take in,” Henry’s voice was calm and professional. It was the tone he adopted when he had to give patients or families bad news, one he had perfected over long years of practice. “But we are telling the truth, I assure you, Inspector.”

The other man looked for a moment like he was going to speak, his eyes darting from Henry’s own to Phryne’s and back as his mouth opened for a long moment and then closed again. Henry pressed on.

“As far as I am aware, I cannot die. I have been alive for nearly 150 years and during that time, my heart has stopped a great many times - disease, war, accidents…” He trailed off, remembering in a heartbeat the the many times he had died over his years. He shook the memories off and continued, dreading his next offer, but knowing that there might be no other way to convince Robinson. “I am prepared and willing to demonstrate.”

Henry watch both of their faces as his meaning sank in. The Inspector barely seemed to register the offer, his suspicion still strongly painted across his features. Phryne, on the other hand, reacted more dramatically, pain and horror etched in the furrow of her brow and the pained frown of her mouth. He had known this would be her reaction and as much as he didn’t want to put her through his death and disappearance again, it was critical that the Inspector believe them. As he briefly locked eyes with her, Henry willed Phryne to understand and accept the necessity of his offer.

When he looked back towards Robinson, he found the other man’s focus not on himself, but on Phryne. While the other man had not reacted strongly to Henry’s words, he was certainly doing so as he took in the distress on Phryne’s features. Henry watched as the two locked eyes for long minutes, a silent conversation taking place that he was only catching small parts of though he thought it might be falling out in his favor. It seemed that where Henry’s offer had done nothing to convince him, Phryne’s reaction to it certainly had.

And then the Inspector was turning back to him, his earlier suspicions not fully gone from his expression, but greatly diminished. In their place was a reluctant acceptance, his trust in Phryne apparently winning out, for the moment over his knowledge that what they were saying was impossible. He sighed heavily before speaking.

“A demonstration won’t be necessary.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Henry saw some of the tension leave Phryne’s posture, her shoulders relaxing at the other man’s words. He was about to thank Robinson, when the other man continued speaking as he took the few steps to his desk and chair, brushing gently past Phryne as he moved. 

“I’m not saying that I actually believe this ridiculous story, but for the moment we’ll hold out on your arrest.” 

He took a seat and gestured for Henry to do the same, which he did, glad that the situation seemed to be coming back to an even keel. Phryne gave him a small smile before she took a few steps to lean against the bookshelf. He answered with one of his one before turning his attention back to the Inspector.

“Now, Dr. Morgan, maybe you could start at the beginning.”


End file.
